bbsantc - Tumblr blog

bbsantc · 4 months ago

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Amazing. Beautiful. Heartwarming in every sense.

sun keeps rising (like it tends to do)

pairing: jay park x fem!reader

summary: being the mum friend is rewarding, if not a little tricky—you would know. it wouldn't hurt to let someone look after you for once, would it?

genres: summer au, strangers to lovers, (friends-in-law to lovers really), smut, fluff, angst (sorry !!!)

warnings: minors dni, nct jeong jaehyun it is always nct jaehyun, tbh the angst is p mild you'll be fine, light self-sabotage, ningning is the maknae, accidentally made jay a freak.. my bad, appearances from JEONG JAEHYUN from nct (speedy return king), possible inaccuracies regarding the cooking process..

word count: 39,982 (had a lot to say after a year out ig)

playlist: ordinary things (feat. nonna) ariana grande, juna clairo

author's note: heyyyyyy.. been a while lmao.. my fault !!! 2024 really got away from me it's literally been a year since my last fic barely exaggerating.......................... whatever.. thanks to emma for the beta as always, heart u so bad little miss asahicore ! as always, enjoy the fic and lmk your thoughts even if you hate it and hope i never write again :D

You realise there is something about Park Jay the night you meet him at the bonfire—when he tells you he doesn’t want to sleep with you.

“You don’t want to sleep with me?” you repeat, amused.

He’s sitting beside you in the sand, watching the side of your face whenever you watch the fire. Embers lift into the darkness of summer. You’re part of a broken circle of (soon-to-be) fourth-years dangling cigarettes and beer cans from their fingers as the tide rolls quietly. You don’t know him, not really, despite sharing a university and some friends, but tonight, you’re talking. A little. Small talk at first, for a while. Trading information about majors and extracurriculars—Law, football, and music for Jay; Literature, and film for you.

His sudden confession catches you so off-guard you can’t even remember what led you there. You have no idea how you’d gone from casual conversation to.. whatever this is. Jay seems as thrown as you, a mildly terrified look flashing across his face, letting a very slow beat pass before he tilts his head. “Not really,” he admits.

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything at all. He takes this as a cue to keep talking, and you let him, his hand gesturing towards you when he says, “You’re obviously attractive. We just.. don’t know each other.”

Obviously, he said. You can’t help smiling at that. Egged on by alcohol and his compliment, you hold his gaze. “Not yet.”

Jay gulps, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he shakes his head. “No, not-not yet.”

And so, you spend the night talking, sitting so close that heat radiates from his bare knees across the inch of space between you. You let him steer the conversation, and he doesn’t seem opposed, guiding it this way and that while you hang onto his every word. The two of you talk about your favourite movies, embarrassing childhood memories, places you want to visit, and random thoughts that pop into your head.

Even after the fire dies out, the crowd clears, and it gets so chilly you start to shudder, you stay there, talking with Jay, shoulders touching under the blanket he brought.

In the quiet falling between you, the sea kisses the sand gently at the shore, and the smell of smoke tickles your nostrils. The feeling of Jay’s eyes on you grows harder to ignore. He doesn’t look away when you look at him. Instead, he meets your gaze with a smile.

“What is it?” you ask, playing with the frayed thread at the edge of his blanket.

“You’re so different in real life.”

The grin on his face makes you grin too, though you tilt your head in faux contemplation. “Yes,” you say, conspiratorially. “In real life, I’m three-dimensional.”

Jay chuckles, shaking his head. “I was going to say you’re taller.”

Even if you tried, you couldn’t hide your surprise or the way you sat up straighter, jaw falling open upon hearing his words. You haven’t been considered tall since you were ten, standing in the back row for a photo with your Brownie troop—by the time you’d moved up to Guides, you were one year older and two rows shorter, standing in front with the younger girls and short sixteen-year-olds.

If the grin on his face is anything to go by, your shock amuses him, and you can’t help but grin back. “Do I look short on Instagram?” you ask, genuinely curious.

He thinks about it sincerely, eyes trailing over every inch of your body before meeting yours again, a thoughtful tilt of his head to the left as he holds his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Well, you’re like this height on Instagram, so yeah, I think you do.”

“Instagram isn’t to scale?” You make a show of your mock distress when he shakes his head, holding your own head in your hands and only letting a laugh slip when he does. “So all this time I’ve been catfishing everyone?”

Jay pulls air through his teeth, a solemn expression on his face. “Afraid so,” he says, laughing when you do.

And like it’s the most natural thing to do in the world, like you’ve known him for years, for ever, you nudge him in the ribs, faux offence written all over your face.

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger!” He raises his hands defensively, lips stretched from ear to ear. “Tall women are great, don’t even worry about it,” he adds.

“I’m five foot four,” you point out.

“And that’s like.. 5 whole feet and 3 inches taller than I thought you’d be!” Jay laughs for a while at his own joke, and you laugh too even though you’d rolled your eyes at him.

“Thank you, I guess.”

Jay shrugs, an easy smile on his lips as he watches you, his eyes flickering over your face before meeting yours. For the first time all night, he hesitates, gaze falling to your lips for a moment so brief you wonder if you imagined it. He takes a beat, finding his words, all traces of his playful demeanour softening, giving way to something you can’t quite place. “In real life, it’s so much harder to look away from you.” There’s sincerity written all over his face and clear in his tone—he doesn’t even seem embarrassed by how forward he’s being.

Again, he’s caught you off-guard, flustered you completely. It’s all a bit disarming—in the best of ways. Your heart races. Warmth settling in your cheeks, creeping down the back of your neck. Your mind is reeling, hoping he’s being as sincere as he looks, hoping you’re not making a big deal out of nothing. Giddiness, or maybe alcohol, sets off a tickly flutter in your stomach regardless. The air around you is lighter, and you can’t help but hide your face in your hands, doing all you can to conceal your grin. Unfortunately, hiding your face does nothing for the giggle that breaks free.

When you finally calm down, you look at him—his face is much closer to yours, or, at least, it seems to be. Jay’s smile widens, his gaze softening again as he watches you. He reaches out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering for a moment, touch searing your skin.

“You’re just so,” he starts, but simply shakes his head, his expression saying what his words won’t.

You settle back into a comfortable silence, stealing glances and sharing smiles while listening to the murmured chatter of whatever other students are left on the beach. As time passes, the air growing cooler and the stars shining brighter above you, the two of you sit there like you have all night, content in the quiet.

Until Jay breaks it with a yawn he tries and fails to stifle. Amusement pulls your lips up at the corners, a soft laugh slipping out. “I see I’m boring you now,” you tease.

“Not at all.” Jay sits up straighter, shaking his head seriously. “Just more relaxed than I’ve been in a while.”

You nod, understanding the sentiment. Tonight has been great, better than you thought it would be. But as much as you want to stay in this moment, your eyes become heavier, and yawns become harder to hold back.

“I didn’t expect to enjoy tonight so much,” he says after a beat, looking up at the sky. “I almost stayed home.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Jay turns his head to meet your gaze, grinning. “Me too.”

His eyes linger on yours, falling to your lips when you smile. He’s closer now, close enough to kiss if you want to, if he wants to. Instead, he pulls the blanket tighter around you, his knee brushing against yours, and you stay like that until the cold becomes too much to bear.

Hours later — when everyone’s gone home, and the only proof tonight even happened is the sand lodged beneath your fingernails and the stubborn smell of smoke clinging to your twice-washed hair — you get into bed with a smile on your face, thinking it’ll be a one-time, memorable night where you spoke to a friend-in-law for the first time, and there was nothing more to it than that. But his smile keeps you up that night. And again the night after.

It’s June 20th, the first day of summer—according to the calendar at least. Ask you or any of your friends, and summer began sometime in the middle of April when you were all wine-drunk in Yizhuo’s apartment, watching rain attack the windows as you celebrated Jeno’s birthday. Not even finals could dwindle your summer spirit. Nights out were meticulously scheduled around exam timetables, with Jaemin even dragged out for Hwang Yeji’s birthday party the night before his 9 a.m. pharmacology final—leaving the party at dawn and the exam hall with an A, because Na Jaemin is nothing short of a hard worker.

The weather hasn’t always cooperated, but as far as you guys are concerned, it has been summer for two whole months, and with Yizhuo’s AC still busted, the group has no option but to gather at your and Minjeong’s place instead—though you can think of a few alternatives. As the second-most sober person in the flat, you find yourself on a 9 p.m. ice cream run with your competition: completely sober Jaemin. The heat is sweltering despite the time, relentless, so intense you swear there’s a hole burning in the back of your vest. All the same, Jaemin walks beside you with his lips set into a small smile, the way they always are.

As the street bakes around you and sunburnt kids sprint past with skateboards tucked under their arms, you walk in comfortable silence. You don’t comment on the sweat on his bare arm whenever it brushes yours, and he does the same for you. His sunglasses are propped up in his hair, pulling it back off his forehead and revealing the sweat beading along his hairline.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he says, glancing at you. “I needed the company.”

If it wasn’t for the way Jaemin forced you out the door, you might’ve thought he was being sweet. But he did force you, lifting you off your feet and over the threshold before you even had a chance to protest—not that you would have.

You roll your eyes and Jaemin chuckles, letting you enter the shop first as the double doors open, a much-needed blast of cold air hitting your skin. You let out a sigh of relief, stepping inside and letting him lead the way, basket in hand. The narrow aisles of the off-licence are cosy in the heat, and the two of you linger in the dairy section where the open fridges cool your skin. The light draught is nice, and clearly, Jaemin thinks so too, standing in place with his free hand on his hip, eyeing the butter with a thoughtful look.

It’s hard to look away from him, the stiffness of his posture catching your eye as you try to gauge his mood. You turn your words over in your head, searching for the right thing to say—expressing your sincerity without spoiling his mood. For as long as you’ve known Jaemin, he’s never spoken seriously with you about anything, always finding a way to steer the conversation in another direction, which is why you know you need to choose your words delicately.

“I heard about your placement, by the way.” The words come out so quickly and with such force you startle yourself, though he doesn’t react. “I’m sorry you didn't get it.”

He takes so long to respond you wonder if, like he always seems to be, he’s thinking the same thing you are—or if he’s even heard you at all. A long quiet moment stretches over the aisle before he sighs, tilting his head as his eyes meet yours. “I’m not,” he says, and you can tell he means it. “It went to a grad student. They deserved it more.”

“No one deserved that slot more than you, Jaem. That clinic is stupid.”

His lips curl into a lopsided grin as he nudges your shoulder with his palm. “They’re not stupid for hiring someone more qualified, Duckie. But I do feel good hearing you say that.”

You beam at him, relieved. “That stupid, stupid clinic.”

“That stupid, stupid clinic.” Jaemin nods, his grin widening.

Like before, you trail after him, laughing as you walk in step toward the frozen food aisle. Jaemin pulls on one of the freezers, the door yawning open with a sharp hiss, cold air spilling out onto your skin like something from a dream, crisp, refreshing. Enough to make you sigh with exaggerated relief as he opens the door next to you, letting you hog the first one.

“Feels like heaven,” you whisper, savouring the coolness.

“Liar,” Jaemin says through a laugh, flicking your shoulder with his fingers. “You said it was only two cans of cider.”

“It was only two cans of cider.” Your tone comes out defensive, but not on purpose.

“Right.” He draws out the word and mischief shines in his eyes when you look at him. “If I knew your tolerance had gotten so shit, I’d have brought Jaehyun instead.”

The suggestion of that lightweight in your place makes you cackle. “Don’t even. Jaehyun just has to see a bottle before he’s crying over that dead plant.”

“Wait.” Jaemin pauses, puzzled. “Injang was a plant?”

“Yes, a cactus.”

“Huh,” he utters, seeming to consider this for a moment, as if for the first time. “I always thought Injang was, like, a pet or something—a sibling maybe?”

“You’re a mess.”

“Yeah, like you’re any better.”

“Jaem.” You scoff. “I have seen you get lost in your own apartment after a mimosa.”

Jaemin opens his mouth to retort, but before he can say anything, his phone starts ringing in his pocket—killing the words on the tip of his tongue. You smirk, sensing a victory, and he rolls his eyes at the timing. “It’s Jeno,” he says, answering the call.

Jeno’s voice comes through the phone so loud Jaemin cringes, yanking it from his ear. You can hear the accusation in Jeno’s tone as he asks what’s taking you guys so long. Jaemin’s eyes dart around the store before landing on you, wide and begging for your help. You stare back, shrugging helplessly—you’re as stuck as he is.

“Traffic,” Jaemin blurts out at last, grinning—pleased with himself.

On the other side of the phone, Jeno doesn’t seem to share his amusement, repeating the word traffic like it’s the most bizarre suggestion he’s ever heard. “You walked.”

Jaemin’s gaze snaps back to you, and you lean out from behind the freezer door. “Foot traffic,” you offer, rather unhelpfully, though he’s impressed—observing you through the glass with a glint of admiration in his eyes, smiling when do.

“Whatever,” Jeno huffs. “Just hurry up.” And with that, he cuts the call.

From the corner of your eye, you see Jaemin putting his phone away and glancing at you with a knowing smile, but you’re already scanning the freezer for the flavours you know your friends like. Jaemin grabs an orange-flavoured Calippo and waves it in front of your face, raising a brow when you look at him as if to ask this one? You nod, amused, as he tosses it — and one for himself — into the basket.

After making sure you’ve gotten everyone’s favourites, you close the freezer. Jaemin, however, lingers, enjoying the breeze with his eyes shut.

“Come on,” you say, nudging him with your shoulder as you start towards the till. “Let’s head back before Jen sends a search party.”

He chuckles, walking with you and swinging the basket before emptying it into the conveyor. The cashier doesn’t look at you as he rings you up. You don’t try to argue with Jaemin when he says he’ll pay, nor do you offer to help him with the bags, knowing he won’t let you.

Outside, the heat slams into you, worse now than earlier. The sun is sinking towards the horizon, glaring directly into your eyes. Unfortunately, your sunglasses are buried somewhere in your room, abandoned in your rush to leave, so you bring your hand up to shield your eyes. Noticing this, Jaemin takes his sunglasses off and hands them to you. He shrugs when you thank him, slipping them on.

Back at your apartment, Jeno’s so pleased to be unwrapping a Twister that he doesn’t complain about how long you guys took. Minjeong, however, is nowhere in sight. You knock on her door, though you know you don’t need to, and she comes to answer it, smiling when she sees you, grinning when she sees the Fab in your hands.

With the door closed, Minjeong takes a proper look at you, snorting in your face while she fumbles with the ice cream wrapper. “Nice shades.”

You frown at this, watching as she takes a seat at the top of her bed, and go over to her wardrobe to see your reflection. Admittedly, Jaemin’s chunky aviators do not look as good on you as they do on him. In the mirror, Minjeong’s wearing a shit-eating grin that widens when you flip her off.

“I mean it! They’re cute on you, in a sort of..” She trails off, running a hand through her hair while she thinks. “Girl who doesn’t care about wearing flattering accessories kind of way. It’s chic, I think—very cool girl of you.”

“Right, MJ, thanks,” you mutter, pushing the glasses into your hair.

You and Minjeong have been close since you were kids and have only gotten closer. So close that when it came time to fly the proverbial nest, you didn’t even discuss moving in together. Minjeong simply texted you the link to an apartment in the city and said: Open viewing at three of the units in this building on Friday. Are you free or should I look for us?

When you sit at the end of her bed, Minjeong shuffles down the duvet to sit next to you—movements relaxed and unhurried. In the newfound quiet, the two of you eat your ice cream, comfortable enough with each other that the silence is reassuring rather than unsettling. It’s always been like this for you two, the ease of being in Minjeong’s company is twofold in silence.

The fresh orange flavour of the Calippo is distractingly refreshing, cooling you down immediately. It’s impossible to savour and before you realise it, you’re drinking the melted remains from the bottom, a little slice of summer handed to you in a cardboard tube.

With her popsicle stick between her teeth, Minjeong lays down on her stomach, absently turning her phone over and over in her hands. She’s thinking. About what, you’re not yet sure, but you won’t press—letting her ease into it at her own pace. Laughter and yelling bleeding through the closed door, her bedroom is like a refuge from the chaos in the living room, a space to recharge. You’re happy to be here with her, to talk about anything or nothing at all—just you and Minjeong, the way she likes it.

It takes a while, but she sets her phone down, looking at you with a small smile tugging the corners of her mouth. “You know,” she starts, voice light and already teasing. “I’ve been asking around about your little boyfriend.”

You raise a brow. “My little boyfriend?”

“Jay,” Minjeong states simply, giving you a look as if you should have known who she was referring to.

The mere mention of his name makes your stomach flutter, a giggle coming out that you don’t bother trying to conceal from her. Still, you scoff. “That’s what you’ve been thinking about this whole time?”

“Wait! Just listen, just listen,” she says through a laugh. “Apparently — according to Heeseung and his big drunken mouth — he’s been going on and on about this beautiful girl he was talking to at the bonfire.”

You’d be lying if you said your curiosity wasn’t piqued over what else Jay might have said about you, but you’ve been here before — eager with your hopes higher than ever — and you know how it ends, so you don’t bother asking. The smile falls from your face.

“Shut up,” you mumble, looking down at your hands in your lap.

She doesn’t. “It’s like we have a J name curse or something.. Jimin, Jay, J—” she lists, though you hold up a hand to stop her from going on.

“I get it.”

Minjeong sighs happily, a smile on her face, pleased with herself for getting a reaction out of you. She’s the picture of satisfaction, giddily kicking her feet back and forth. A long moment of quiet settles between you, broken only by the sound of her socked toes gently thudding against the wall behind her. She rests her cheek on her arms, tucks her bangs behind her ear. Presses her eyes shut, chews on her lip, thinking, again. You wait for her, again—you will always wait for Minjeong.

A while passes like this until she blinks her eyes open, voice soft, contemplative when she says, “I’m so nervous about spending the week at Jimin’s that I almost want to say I can��t go.”

You frown but don’t speak, waiting for her to continue.

“I am excited, I’m mostly excited, but I just.. I want it to go well, so badly. I really want her parents to like me, you know?” She sighs, hiding her face in her hands. “Jimin said they’re really excited to see me again, and it’s sweet, obviously—it’s really sweet, but it’s making me feel sick and I have no idea why.”

Minjeong leans into your touch when you stroke her hair, a sigh rumbling out of her, seeming more frustrated with herself than the situation. “I’m being stupid, right?”

You shake your head. “It’s natural to want people to like you, no less your girlfriend’s parents, but as far as I see it, it seems like they already do. It was their idea for you to stay over, right? And it was her mum who dropped off that soup for you when you were sick, I’m pretty sure they love you, Minjeong.”

Her brows furrow as if presented with this information for the first time. Head tilting. A slow blink. “You really think so?” she asks, voice soft, right on the edge of hope despite the tension clinging to her features.

“Of course, I think so. Why wouldn’t they love you?”

Minjeong thinks about this for a while, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. “I don’t know,” she mumbles, shrugging.

“You’re going to be fine, I promise,” you tell her sincerely. “And on the off chance that you’re not fine, I can always fake an emergency so you can come back home.”

At this, she looks relieved, cracking a small smile, one that grows as her eyes finally meet yours, the weight of her anxiety lifting—even if only a little bit. She sits up properly on the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her chin on them. Neither of you speaks, just sitting there in the calm of her bedroom, in the calm of each other’s presence.

Eventually, Minjeong smiles to herself, shaking her head. “You don’t even need an emergency, just tell me you miss me and I’ll be back before you know it.”

Since the bonfire, you’ve been hounding the group chat for a beach day. And finally, the day is here—whether it’s here because your friends have come around to the idea of recharging by the sea, or simply to appease you, the day is here, like a reward for surviving the days spent cooped up in your city apartment with everyone. Jeno, God bless him, texted in the morning to let you know he’s running errands with Aeri — which, somehow, only you seem to know is code for having sex — but would be at yours around 12 if that’s okay.

And like clockwork, a text from Aeri comes in at 12 on the dot: otw to yours w jen, space in the cooler if u wanna bring more drinks !!! You grab your phone from the charger and a six-pack of Old Mout from the fridge before slipping on your flip-flops, buzzing with excitement until they arrive.

Aeri’s sitting shotgun while you share the backseat with the cooler, holding onto its handle as you watch the trees blur by through the open window. Her phone is connected to the car, playing your friend group’s quarterly collaborative playlist on shuffle, stuck in a thick fog of Jaemin’s current 00s R&B fixations—he had his playlist privileges revoked last summer after adding every single song in Ariana Grande’s discography to boost streams and judging by the 151 songs he’s added since being allowed back two weeks ago, he’s more than happy to be back. Though you will never complain about getting to yell the lyrics to Promiscuous in the car with your friends, all the windows down on your way to the beach. The playlist is sprawling, and the two of you yell along to Mitski. Jeno is too busy craning his neck, searching for a parking spot to pay any mind to Mitski or her Washing Machine Heart.

As you near the sea, the trees give way to kiosks and clear skies. You can’t resist closing your eyes, letting the breeze and the scent of saltwater wrap around you like a hug. Despite Aeri’s protests, Jeno insists on looping the car park in hopes the perfect spot will open up. You, on the other hand, are just happy to observe how different the beach looks today—still busy, but in a different, more wholesome way. You rest your chin on the car window frame, watching colourful kites in the sky and kids running after each other, caked in sludgy sand from the shoreline.

Jeno, God bless him, is too polite to barge into a spot, muttering swear words under his breath as he lets other drivers pull in, and drumming his fingers against the steering wheel with increasing speed. All it takes is one more loop for the perfect space to open up and Aeri seems more relieved than Jeno, huffing out an impatient, finally, as he pulls in—and it really is a perfect spot, so close you can feel the sand between your toes already.

As soon as you all get out of the car, Aeri walks ahead to take a phone call, chatting animatedly as soon as it touches her ear—and Jeno doesn’t seem to mind that you’re not helping him with the cooler, he’s got it.

“I keep meaning to ask you,” he starts, tilting his head as he speaks. “What the hell happened to you at the bonfire? I remember you and Jaemin seemed pretty comfortable again when we left, but then me and Hyuck got back, and poor Jaem could hardly remember how he got to the beach, never mind where you went.”

At this, a hodgepodge of vivid memories comes to you at once — kisses and late drives in July, sneaking off at parties to feel the wet heat of a summer evening hang over your shoulders, old feelings (good and bad) — threatening to bubble beneath the surface. A thick coolness settles in your chest, only spreading the more you try to will it away.

You sigh, adjusting your tote bag on your shoulder. “That was ages ago, Jen. Leave it there.”

He frowns, seeming to pick up on your discomfort and hesitates before speaking with an earnestness that catches you off-guard. “Look,” he says, lowering his voice. “I’m not going to judge you for hooking up on the beach—I won’t even pry for details, I just want to know who it was so Jaem and I can scare them a little.” His tone is oddly protective, brotherly.

It’s sweet, really, what Jeno’s willing to do under the guise of protecting you, but you can’t help but scoff anyway, knowing it’s partly an excuse for him to show off his gym gains. “Jaemin isn’t exactly intimidating,” you point out.

Whatever he says in response is as good as nothing to you, whose breath has caught in your throat at the sight of Jay. The iciness quickly subsides when you see him, melted by an overwhelming heat coursing through your body by the second. He’s in the middle of a heated volleyball match with some guys you know because Jeno knows them—Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon. It’s no surprise that they’re attractive, they’re college athletes—good looks might as well be part of the team contract. But Jay? Jay’s glowing. The sun beating down against his honeyed skin and making the sheen of sweat covering his body attractive.

“Ahh,” Jeno hums in understanding, following your gaze. “One of Jaemin’s football buddies, huh? No wonder you’re so secretive.”

“I didn’t hook up with anybody,” you assert, finding it impossible to look away. “He made it clear he’s not interested, not like that anyway.”

“Sure, he’s not.”

You roll your eyes but don’t reply, reluctantly tearing your gaze from Jay, thankful to have reached the spot where Aeri’s taking her beach blanket out of her bag, and for the sudden lightness her presence brings. But even as you help lay out the blanket, the image of Jay persists, stuck like a song you can’t get out of your head. Jeno sets the cooler by your feet, its weight denting the sand as you watch the game. Curious — not at all swayed by Jay’s muscle definition or his back flexing as he runs around his half of the court — you push up your sunglasses, resting them in your hair to get a good look. Jeno and Aeri’s conversation about Minjeong potentially bringing Jimin only half hits your ears as you marvel at Jay, offering occasional nods to the best of your ability. Normally, the click of the cooler opening would grab your attention and hold it until you had a drink in your hand. Today though, you don’t even realise Jeno’s holding a can of cider out for you until he snaps his fingers in your face, sitting down next to Aeri and opening it for himself when you shake your head.

“Hyuck’s going to be crushed,” he says, and you don’t need to see him to know he’s smiling at the thought, but when you do look, his smile is a grin, covering his whole face.

“Why would Minjeong fake a girlfriend anyway?” you ask.

Jeno shrugs. “I think he thinks she’s playing hard to get.”

“Because lesbian Minjeong is playing hard to get with a man,” you say, rolling your eyes. A laugh slips from your lips as you think about how ridiculous that sounds, struggling to remember the origins of Donghyuck’s (made-up) crush on Minjeong.

Your comment makes Aeri snort as she looks through her bag. “Can we be sure Hyuck’s not playing hard to get rid of?”

Jeno’s face scrunches up with laughter, and yours does the same. “Sounds like Hyuck,” he adds eventually.

As your laughter subsides, you glance back at the court. The boys are switching sides, granting you a view of Jay’s stomach that you won’t complain about, though he still hasn’t noticed you. Instead, he preps for his serve, throwing the ball before whacking it over the net. Sunghoon jumps to return it, and Jake sends it back. They work up a rally, teamwork and concentration on full display until Jay’s eyes flicker in your direction, doing a double-take when he realises it’s you. On the other side of the court, locked in, Heeseung dives into the sand to hit the ball, and it’s so impressive when he does that Aeri stops talking mid-sentence. The ball sails through the air, a perfect arc hurtling towards Jay, but his eyes stay fixed on you—and there’s that smile again, finally, you think. The impact is so sudden and jarring a collective gasp rises from everyone who sees and hears the ball strike Jay’s cheek with an audible thwack. He stumbles backwards, hand rising to cup the stinging spot, seeming more shocked than hurt by the collision. Heeseung runs over to him, yelling apologies through laughter as Jake and Sunghoon cackle into their hands, turning away from the scene.

For a moment, you watch as Jay regains composure, and your concern forces you into action. Without a second thought, you reach into the cooler, pull out the first thing you touch and jog over to Heeseung and Jay. They look at you in sync, four eyes falling to your face and then the cold, damp can you’re holding.

“Here,” you say quietly, perhaps a beat too late.

Jay accepts the can with a grateful smile, sighing with relief when it touches his cheek. “Thanks,” he says, gaze meeting yours briefly before looking away, the tip of his ears flushing red.

You shrug, paying no mind to the smile on Heeseung’s face as he looks between you and Jay, or the way the sun scorches your back through your shirt. The moment stretches over you, tension palpable though quickly broken when Heeseung clears his throat, and abruptly takes off in the direction he came from.

“Hey,” Jay says.

He looks so different in the sun. Looks so good. Younger, gentler, because of the freckles you can now see dotting the centre of his face, the peeling skin on the bridge of his nose, his smile softer; a dimple appears that you hadn’t noticed the other night.

“Hi,” you say belatedly, cheeks flushing as you realise he caught you admiring him. “I’d say good game, but..” You trail off, gesturing to the can of Kopparberg he’s holding to his cheek.

Jay laughs softly, fondness in his eyes as he looks at you. “Got distracted,” he admits with a self-deprecating grin. “We were winning, if that matters.”

A smile as you nod, you can’t help smiling. “It does, actually. But you shouldn’t let your guard down like that; might get hit by a volleyball or something.”

He gives you a grateful smile, moved by your stupid attempt at a joke. “Thanks,” he says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jake and Sunghoon reach you before you can reply—the former giving you a huge hug like you’re the best thing he’s seen all day, and the latter offering a small smile and stiff wave. “Are you okay?” Sunghoon asks Jay. “Like, back to playing, okay?”

Jay’s eyes light up, seeming eager to return to the game. “Yeah, I think so,” he says, taking the can from his cheek. Seeing the swelling and angry red skin, the three of you scowl, mumbling expletives as Jay frowns at your reactions. “Shit, maybe not?”

Beside you, Jake snorts, grabbing Jay’s wrist and pressing the can back to his face roughly, laughing with delight when Jay winces. The word, hey, slips from your lips before you can stop it. Pitying Jay, you nudge Jake in the ribs, mumbling at him to be gentle and casting a playful glare at him. Jake grins, unfazed, but you feel a little guilty until Jay looks at you, mouthing his thanks.

“Game over, I guess.” Jay frowns. “My fault.”

“Jeno’s here,” you offer, pointing limply over your shoulder to where your friends are laughing as Yizhuo and Jaemin sit down with them. “He’d want in, probably.”

Jake beams, nodding eagerly and rushing away with Sunghoon close behind.

Alone again, Jay gets your attention by tapping your shoulder, the soft smile on his face making you grin when you see it. “Is it that bad?” he asks.

You sigh, amused and sympathetic. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”

“Guess I’ll sit out for now.”

“Probably a good idea. You’ll be back in no time, though.”

His eyes meet yours, soft gratitude shining through them. “Thanks, Doc.”

The two of you join Aeri, Yizhuo, and Jaemin, who are sipping cocktail cans, and gossiping—if the scandalised look on Jaemin’s face is anything to go by. He’s the first to look up, smiling at you before his brows raise at the sight of Jay beside you. You glare down at him, willing him not to comment. The girls make room for you both on the blanket, and you sit down, enjoying the warmth of the sun.

“What happened to you?” Jaemin asks Jay, a teasing smile on his lips as he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair.

“Got distracted,” Jay admits, glancing at you with a grin. “But I’m in good hands.”

Jaemin’s eyes flicker over to you, unable to conceal his amused scoff. “I’ll bet—Duckie’s had her fair share of distractions too.”

There’s no time to process that as the conversation continues like you and Jay hadn’t interrupted. Laughing, teasing, light and easy. Jay fits in perfectly, and Jaemin keeps an eye on you.

Ahead of you, the volleyball game goes on like nothing happened, though Jake and his new partner, Jeno, are butting heads a bit. Literally. Both boys, competitive as anyone you know, diving for the ball at the same time, yelling out some variation of my ball and ignoring each other. It takes a while, but they seem to settle into a good groove—though admittedly, without Jay on the court, the game doesn’t interest you quite so much.

As the afternoon wears on, the sun doesn’t tire, leading most of the group into the water. Donghyuck and Jeno are having a lengthy discussion about potential takeout options for lunch (though given the time, it’ll more likely be an early dinner) because, between all ten of you — Jay and his friends included — no one had the foresight to bring anything to eat. You and Jay are sitting together, knees touching as you quietly watch everyone in the water. The easy silence wraps you up so much you don’t even notice that Minjeong and Jimin have arrived until Jeno calls out asking if they brought food.

“Hey, Jen,” Minjeong says, giving him a side hug, not daring to unclasp her hand from Jimin’s. “Why would we bring food? We ate at that new burger place downtown, so good.” Still chatting with Jeno, Minjeong’s eyes scan the blanket before meeting yours and she grins at you, waving happily and mouthing hey.

There’s no stopping the grin that spreads over your lips, stretching from ear to ear at the sight of her as a rush of warmth passes through you. It’s rare for you and Minjeong to go long without seeing each other. You even make plans during the week you spend at home over the holidays. Meeting up at the Christmas markets for clumsy laps around the ice rink, and sweet sips of Baileys hot chocolate, or sharing Boxing Day dinners with her family. Four days apart feels like a year, and seeing her now is a breath of fresh air.

“Jeno!” Jimin exclaims, hugging him with the same enthusiasm — just as committed to hand-holding as her girlfriend — though her smile falters when she spots Donghyuck. “Renjun,” she says in greeting, voice dripping with disinterest.

Donghyuck looks up at her, rolling his eyes. “Dong. Hyuck,” he corrects again, stressing the syllables.

For a moment, Jimin seems to consider this before shrugging. “Don’t. Care.”

With Donghyuck sufficiently irritated, the two girls leave him alone, all bright smiles and waggling eyebrows as they sit down next to you. They greet Jay, giving you a teasing look you hope he doesn’t catch—not that there’s much time for him to think about it anyway, as Jeno comes over, clapping his shoulders with both hands and making him flinch.

“Alright,” he says, laughing. “Let’s go get food.”

You frown, looking up at him. “What do you need Jay for?”

With a chuckle, Jay bumps your shoulder with his. “Yeah, Jeno. What do you need me for?” he asks.

Straightening up, Jeno rests his hands on his hips, an excited smile curving over his lips. “I’ve never had a bad meal out with this guy, dude knows his shit.”

Jay’s smile is soft, humble, as he gets up and drapes an arm around Jeno’s shoulders. “Can’t argue with that,” he admits, turning to you, gaze lingering. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

You nod, not bothering to hide your smile, warmth spreading throughout your chest. As the boys disappear in search of sustenance — Donghyuck complaining in the background — Jimin spots Aeri and Yizhuo in the water and pulls off her coverup before running away to join them, leaving you and Minjeong in the dust for some much-needed alone time.

“So?” you ask, just as she blurts out, “I’m having so much fun!”

You both laugh, and Minjeong groans, hiding her face behind her hands. “I feel so stupid! I was so nervous for no reason.” She shakes her head, as if scolding herself.

“Told you,” you say in a sing-song tone, nudging her with your shoulder.

“I’ll tell you everything when I get back on Sunday.” She gives you a look, curiosity glimmering behind her eyes. “Did Jay get that bruise in a fight to defend your honour?”

You blink at her. “What?”

“Sorry.” Minjeong laughs to herself, waving her hand dismissively. “Jimin’s parents have been showing me a ton of old movies. I just saw Dirty Dancing last night, and now I’m thinking I want that for you.”

The thought of Jay in a fight makes you laugh, you can hardly imagine him killing a spider. You shake your head. “He took a volleyball to the face.”

“Did he do it in your honour?”

“I mean.. I guess.” You take a moment to consider it, turning the idea over in your head. “He was looking at me instead of the ball, so, yeah, sure.”

Minjeong sits up straight, pointing an accusatory finger at you as a grin stretches over her lips. “Do you know you just giggled right now?”

Taken aback, you eye her wearily, squinting. “Did not!” you say, more defensive than you mean to be when honestly you might have giggled—you can’t remember.

“Did too!” She gives you a once over, awe coating her features. “Look at you! I don’t know how I didn’t see it before, but you’re glowing.”

You scoff. “It’s thirty-two degrees out, Minjeong, everyone is glowing.”

She laughs, repeating your words in a tone so whiny you can’t help but laugh with her. She settles down before you do though, her expression softens, a sincere look in her eyes as she rests her palm on your knee, shaking your leg. “Seriously, YN. I’m excited for you!” she says—she means every word.

Her sincerity, the sheer delight in her voice takes you by surprise. You bring your knees to your chest, hugging yourself. “There’s nothing to be excited about, MJ, don’t get carried away.”

“I know it’s still early days, but don’t close yourself off—let what happens happen.” You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything, and she continues. “You deserve this, and I really want you to let yourself have it.” Minjeong’s eyes bore deeply into yours, earnest, searching, for a long quiet beat. “The world isn’t going to end if you choose yourself for once,” she says softly.

Again, her sincerity leaves you speechless, words echoing in your head as you sit with them, taking them in. It’s been a long while since the last time you let yourself have it. So long since the last time you even wanted to. You don’t know why Jay makes it so easy to want. Too easy.

“Maybe I will,” you say eventually, shrugging. A big part of you hopes you mean that.

Your answer pleases Minjeong, if the bright grin on her face is anything to go by. She nods, alight with hope as she leans back on her palms, tilting her head back to face the sun; it looks like she’s glowing too. The sounds of the beach seem louder now—your friends, the crashing waves, laughter and chatter all amplified. You steal a glance over your shoulder towards where the boys went off, mind wandering to Jay and what he might be thinking about right now—if he’s thinking about you too. There’s something about his presence, about him — the thought of him, even — that makes everything just a little bit lighter, a steadiness you never knew you could feel with someone you only just met. Overhead, the sun stretches its rays across everything it can reach, soaking the beach in a warm, golden hue. Side by side, you watch as your friends chase each other along the shore, tripping over waves and their own feet, cackling and swearing into the sky. There is peace here for you, with them, and maybe, if you take Minjeong’s words to heart, there can be peace here for you, with Jay too.

And then, after a while, in the distance, you hear the familiar sound of the boys’ laughter ringing out over the beach, breaking your stupor. You turn, and there they are—there he is, making his way back with carrier bags in his hands and a bright grin on his face.

Jay takes a container from the bag and sits next to you, opening it up. “For you,” he says, grinning.

“Seriously?” you ask, raising a brow. “You were talking crazy game about ‘knowing your shit’ and it’s fish and chips? Jay, come on.”

He frowns at this, his eyebrows knitting together. “Fish and chips are like a beach staple,” he points out, pouting. “What did you think we’d bring back? Kalguksu?” Jay cuts a piece of fish with plastic cutlery, and spears it with the fork, holding it out to you. “Can you at least try it before you judge me?”

With a roll of your eyes and a smile on your lips, you take it from him, blowing on it a little before trying the fish and eating your words with it. Unfortunately, it’s really good. Jay smiles as he watches you chew, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. “So?” he prompts, leaning closer. “It’s good, right?”

You nod, the warmth of the food settling in your stomach. “I hate to admit it,” you start, savouring the way his expression shifts, like he’s bracing for impact. “But this is really nice.”

“I knew you’d come around.” He beams, triumphant, and you can’t help but laugh at his pure, unfiltered joy. “A good meal goes a long way.”

Even in adulthood, playing at the beach all day is a surefire way to work up an appetite. Out from the ocean, your friends come running, lazily towelling off and gathering around the food, awestruck, like it’s a gift from God. With your knees tucked to your chest, you watch them all with a smile, happy to be here, happy they’re happy, and Jay gets to work cutting his comically large fish. Despite the bickering, everyone smiles as they inspect the containers, sharing them amongst themselves, and right when you reach for one of them, Jay slides his in front of you—fish cut into neat, little bite-sized chunks.

“It’s still kind of hot, so I’d let it sit for a bit,” he tells you quietly.

You look up at him, finding his eyes and finding your heart rate climbing from you what see in them—earnest affection staring right back at you. His lips tip up at the corners, upending your stomach and all of the butterflies in it.

“Okay?” you say, voice lifting on the last syllable. “Let it sit for a bit, then.”

He laughs quietly, more to himself than anything, shaking his head. “I cut it for you,” he says, gesturing at the food like you haven’t seen it yet.

Your gaze drifts down to it, warmth unfurling in your chest, spreading slowly—a ripple moving outward. At a loss for words, you only manage to utter his name, lips pushing into a pout as you look at him. He doesn’t say anything, just lets his eyes meet yours with that easy, unbothered smile of his like it’s no big deal, like it was the most natural thing in the world to do, like he hasn’t completely undone you with such a simple action.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

It doesn’t seem like he thought much about it, considering you before considering himself. You can’t quite believe it. This stranger, practically—but that’s the thing though, isn’t it? He doesn’t feel like a stranger at all. It’s like you’ve always known him, like he’s always existed on the edge of your life, just outside the frame, waiting to step into focus.

His stare is unwavering as he shrugs. “I know.”

Suddenly nervous, you tuck your hair behind your ear, nudging the container towards him. “Well, at least share it with me.”

He asks if you’re sure, his brow raising slightly, as if amused, when you nod. He hesitates, eyes on the fish for a moment as he makes his decision. Then, with a small smile, he nods too. “After you.” And so, under the teasing gazes of Minjeong and Jeno, you and Jay share a portion of fish and chips—neither of you saying anything when your hands brush against each other.

Around you, your friends fall into sharp concentration, their undivided attention on their food, praising Jay’s chippy selection between bites and swallows—he sits up straighter and gives you a look each time they do, waggling his brows or wearing a toothy grin as though he’d cooked the food himself.

Tipsy and full, everyone lays around for a while as you nurse a cider. Jay, still by your side, is telling you about a cartoon he used to watch as a kid but can’t remember the name of. Every time his eyes meet yours, the butterflies in your stomach — giddy and drunk — pick up speed, while a burning flash attacks your cheeks and neck.

If it weren’t for the way he’s blocking the sun in front of you, you wouldn’t even have noticed Sunghoon was there until he spoke. “Can we borrow him for a sec?” he asks, looking down at you with a smile as you spot Jake standing beside him.

You nod. “Sure, go ahead.”

Jay doesn’t even have a chance to say anything before Sunghoon takes hold of his legs and Jake grabs him by the arms, the two boys running off towards the shore, cackling louder than Jay can yell. Jaemin and Heeseung get up to join them, making it to the water right as Jake and Sunghoon throw Jay in, and Jaemin’s so pleased he jumps around cheering with his arms up above his head.

Jeno comes over to sit with you, slinging an arm — and what you think must be all of his weight — over your shoulders, saltwater dripping from him down your back. “Jay, huh?” he asks—smile wide, eyes tired.

You only shrug in response, the weight of his arm pressing down as damp sea air clings to your skin.

There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes as he laughs to himself. “You know what’s funny?”

A sigh slips out of you. You’ve known Jeno long enough to know that most of the things he finds funny aren't usually very funny at all. “What?” you ask, watching Jay, who’s chasing Jake around the shoreline with a water gun that seems to have appeared from thin air.

“It’s not much,” he says. “It’s just.. I would’ve thought Heeseung was more your type.”

He has your full attention now, eyes on him and the smirk he’s wearing. “What? Jay’s not good enough for me either?” you ask, scared to hear his answer.

“No!” Jeno shakes his head vigorously as if offended by the mere suggestion. “Not at all. If anything I’m relieved it’s Jay, he’s sweet, good head on his shoulders. If I didn’t know you so well, I might say Jay’s out of your league.”

You’re not sure what to make of that, brows knitting together as your lips curl downwards. “I can’t tell if you’re insulting me.”

“I’m saying I think Jay’s a good match for you, that’s all.”

At this, you hum, playing nonchalant so Jeno doesn’t see how much you value his opinion. You only let yourself smile when you look over at Jay again—who is currently being dragged at the foot through the ocean by Jake, thrashing around and yelling in protest.

“Want me to put in a good word?” Jeno offers. “I could warn him about your Jellycat problem.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him. “Liking plushies is not a problem, Jen. You are a problem,” you say, throwing sand at his face, laughing when he sputters.

Jeno shakes his head, getting water and sand all over you. “Hope you’re happy, Duckie,” he says after a beat, standing up and ruffling your hair. “Jay’s going to pay for that.”

Before you can ask what he’s talking about, he takes off sprinting towards the water, towards Jay—poor, unsuspecting Jay. Jeno barrels into him, and both boys disappear into the water with a huge splash, surfacing in seconds, though only Jeno comes up with a grin on his face. Jay’s spluttering, somehow still attractive as he pushes his hair back. Jake roars with laughter, clapping Jeno on the back, seeming pleased to have an ally and Jaemin runs over to join in, whooping and hollering like it’s the best thing he’s seen all day.

You feel bad about it, you do, honestly, as you see Jay running around the shore for dear life, three guys ganging up on him for different reasons—though you can’t help thinking it’s better him than you.

“Time!” Jay yells, forming a T with his arms. “Time! Time, please!” Despite his best efforts, his pleas are ignored and the other guys keep pushing him around.

Finally, waterlogged and exhausted, Jay gives up. At the first opportunity, he runs from the water without looking back, only stopping to throw himself down on the blanket beside you. “Man,” he says, fighting for breath. “What did I do?”

“Well,” you start. “I might have had something to do with Jeno tackling you,” you admit through a laugh.

Immediately, Jay looks betrayed, shaking his head. “Wow, and here I thought we had something going,” he mutters dramatically.

You hold up your hands defensively, eyes wide as you nod, and Jay’s façade crumbles immediately, wearing a smile of his own at the sight of you. “We do! We do! You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” you explain, trying your best to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.

Jay grins at you, nodding his head. “I guess it all worked out in the end—I’m exactly where I want to be right now.”

It’s been two years since Donghyuck got you all barred from Hong Seunghan’s place after vomiting up cherry-flavoured Sourz all over his parents' plush white carpet—which means it’s been two years since you got relegated to the public pool like the rest of your city. Overpriced refreshments, no control over the music, and having to sneak alcohol. Not this summer, though. Oh no, because through Minjeong’s relationship with Jimin, you’ve finally made another friend with a pool.

Over Jimin’s back garden, the sun beams brightly at you all from the cloudless sky, and save for under the parasol at the garden table, there isn’t a spot of shade in sight. The grass is hot and rough, somehow still lush despite the heat pulling sweat to every inch of your skin’s surface—if anyone’s bothered by it, you’re all having too much fun to notice.

Typically, you spend pool days twirling the strings of your bikini bottoms around your finger, watching anxiously as your friends bob drunkenly around the pool, and worrying about their safety because no one else seemed to be. Atypically, you’re buzzed off two cans of cider and three shots of Pineapple AU that you slurped out of Donghyuck’s belly button. It is worth noting that most of your better ideas do not start with Pineapple AU — or Donghyuck — which is probably why you’re sitting on Donghyuck’s shoulders with your core fully engaged, trying to shove Aeri from Jeno’s shoulders and into the pool. As you lock eyes with her, you realise that this might not end well—but you tell yourself that’s half the fun.

Unfortunately, your gym sessions with Aeri are only paying off for one of you—and it’s not the one who walks for an hour on the treadmill while switching through social media apps. So, much to Donghyuck’s dismay, you’ve been launched back into the pool more times than you can count, and Aeri’s hair is starting to dry from her seat on Jeno’s shoulders.

Each defeat takes more out of you than the last, and as you splash back into the water once more, you start to wonder if it might be time for a break. As soon as you call time, Aeri and Jeno start gloating and the sight is enough to make you regret your decision.

“This isn’t over!” you call out, and Donghyuck stands behind you, echoing your words like a child.

When you get out of the water, the air is cooler on your skin than you expect it to be — though you appreciate it in this heat — a shiver running down your spine as you wring water from your hair, droplets splashing against the sun-baked concrete at your feet. You take a towel from a sun lounger to dry off, draping it over your shoulders, muscles pleasantly sore from the game.

Behind you, Minjeong calls out your name. “Oh, YN!” Her tone is sing-songy in a way that makes you fear the teasing you’re about to endure, so you hesitate before turning. But when you do, you find yourself almost colliding with—Jay. He’s just arrived, you assume, with some of his friends in tow, and the sight of him makes you freeze in place, caught off-guard. You had no idea he’d be here.

Time stands still as your eyes shamelessly trail over every inch of his exposed torso—all tact lost to alcohol and the summer heat. His skin catches the light in a way that makes him, and everything around him, seem a bit too bright. You haven’t seen him since the beach last week, and your daydreams haven’t done much for his abs, which are somehow more defined in person. It’s like a cheat code, how good he looks—too perfect to be standing there like it’s nothing.

He catches you, of course — gawking at him like a deer in headlights — and smiles. “Hey,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just thrown your brain into total disarray. There’s something in his eyes though—a glimmer that says he knows exactly what effect he has on you. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

It takes you a beat longer than it should to process his words. “I didn’t know you were coming,” you manage, hoping you sound more composed than you feel, pulse skittering in your chest.

Before you can say anything else, Jaemin appears, draping an arm over Jay’s shoulder. “You made it!” he says, grinning widely, mischief evident in his eyes and smile—the way it often is. “Thought it might be fun to have everyone together again, you know? What do you think, Duckie?”

You blink again, trying to clear the fog in your mind. It is immediately clear to you that Jaemin, a walking, talking good intention, is responsible—being that he outright said it. But you can’t wrap your head around why. For now though, with Jay looking at you the way he is, all soft eyes and sweet smile, you choose to cast your suspicion aside and enjoy his presence.

“Yeah,” you say, finally finding your voice. “The more the merrier.”

Jay’s smile widens like he’s in on something you’re not. “Glad you think so.”

Rather than using his big boy words, Jaemin exits the conversation with a backflip into the pool, drawing the attention of all the guys who cheer and applaud like it’s the first time they’ve ever seen someone do it. If this was a normal hangout with your friends, you would have rolled your eyes and turned your attention elsewhere, but Jay is here, cheering and applauding like everyone else. And it’s so endearing when he does it that you can’t help but smile. However, right when Jaemin hits the surface, a wave of water comes rushing in your direction, and Jay steps in front of you, shielding you from the worst of it, his back taking the brunt of the spray. You blink at him, a little surprised as droplets hit your feet.

Yet again, he catches you staring, grinning brightly as he says, “Hey.” Again.

You raise a brow. “So, is it a requirement that you always show up when I’m not expecting you to?”

“More fun that way, don’t you think?” he quips, his smile widening. He leans in slightly, his voice dipping into a teasing tone. “Keeps you on your toes, huh, Duckie?”

Coming from his mouth, the nickname is almost cute, though you can’t help cringing anyway. You sigh, bringing your hands up to cover your face, groaning softly. “Don’t let Jaem — or anyone else — fool you, Duckie is not a nickname I like.”

Jay’s smile falters, curiosity flickering over his face. His right eyebrow quirks up, but he doesn’t ask—even though you know he’s wondering why. The memory stirs in your chest, still embarrassing, but you can laugh about it now. So you do, letting a breathy chuckle slip out as you think about it. “Let’s just say you’re not the only one who’s taken a volleyball to the face,” you tell him.

He blinks a few times before his teasing smile comes back in full effect—dreamy as ever. “So that’s where it comes from?” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, I’ll lay off on the Duckie thing, then,” he says, his voice softening. “But if you let me off the hook for the nickname, maybe you’ll let me off the hook for something else, too.”

Anticipation turns your stomach as you tilt your head, raising a brow in mock suspicion. “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

Jay leans in a little closer. “How about..” He trails off, hesitating for a split second as if trying to feel out the moment, then gives you a sheepish smile. “How about we hang out on purpose sometime? You know, so we’re not always surprising each other.”

His words catch you off guard, pulling your lips into a grin, a breathy laugh coming out of you that brings your shoulders down a little, his suggestion sitting on the edge of the warm breeze. There’s a jelly-like feeling in your knees, leaving you off-centre. “Yeah,” you say. “I think that could be arranged.”

Visibly relaxing, Jay nods, an exhale coming from his nose as he smiles, showing off his dimples. “Cool.” He nods again, once, firmly—seeming not to notice Sunghoon’s sudden closeness over his shoulder as he goes on. “Cool, so maybe I coul—” He’s cut off by Sunghoon leaning in and yelling, “Boo!” straight into his ear.

Jay flinches, his hand flying up to his ear like he’s been stung, eyes wide for a second before narrowing in irritation. Sunghoon cackles, already taking off in a sprint across the grass, and Jay groans, rubbing his temple before chasing after his friend. “I’m sorry!” he yells to you over his shoulder.

A laugh comes out of you as you watch them. And you’re still laughing when Aeri comes up behind you, her arms snaking around your waist as her chin digs lightly into your shoulder. “Chicken round two?” she asks quietly like it’s a secret.

You nod, but the moment you start moving, Donghyuck cuts you off, shaking his head—a firm no. “I’m busy,” he says without looking up from his phone. Craning your neck, you get a look at his screen where he’s saving the world apparently, one level of Candy Crush at a time.

“Serious business, I see,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else.

Aeri lets out a soft laugh, her grip on you easing up as she peels herself away, already halfway out of the conversation. Jeno snagged her attention, calling her name from the pool and the splash you hear behind you tells you everything you need to know. You’re left there, standing with your hands on your hips like Superman, as you glance around the pool, weighing your options. With Jeno and Aeri already paired up, he’s out; Jaemin being, quite conveniently, nowhere to be found; and Donghyuck rejecting you before you can even get the question out, you quickly realise you’re fresh out of options.

Almost.

Your gaze lands on Jay, who’s sitting on the grass, leaning back on his palms, laughter crinkling the corners of his eyes as he talks to Sunghoon. You hesitate, the thought of being so close to Jay with his hands on your thighs giving you pause. You’re not sure you’ll be able to act normal in that position. Sighing, you look back towards the house and spot Heeseung and Jake sitting at the table with Minjeong and Jimin, and relief washes over you. Minjeong is comfortably settled in Jimin’s lap, her eyes fluttering open the second you approach as if she can sense your presence. She smiles when you squeeze her shoulder.

“Either of you girls up for a round of chicken?” you ask, already knowing they’ll say no too.

Minjeong’s smile is apologetic, and Jimin’s is teasing as they both shake their heads, looking up at you from their seat. You turn your attention to the boys across the table, and there’s a smile on Jake’s face that tells you he’s dying for you to ask him. So you do, or at least you try to—he shoots up out of his seat before you even finish saying his name, nodding fervently until Heeseung elbows him and he keels over, wincing.

“On second thought,” he manages, sitting back down. “I’m not in the mood to play chicken,” he says through gritted teeth, glaring at his friend, though Heeseung looks up at you with a smile, the picture of innocence.

“Sorry, YN. I’m not in the mood either,” Heeseung says, sounding sincere. “But I’m sure Jay would be happy to play if you asked.”

The girls giggle amongst themselves at this obvious attempt to put you and Jay together in one manner or another, and you can’t help laughing too.

Jake’s nodding enthusiastically now, seeming to realise what’s going on, just a beat too late. “Jay loves chicken,” he says reverently. “He’s like the chicken fight master.”

You grin despite yourself. “Is that so?”

Looking back over your shoulder, you set your sights on Jay, who’s now lying down — abandoned by Sunghoon who’s sitting with Donghyuck and Yizhuo — oblivious to the plot forming around him. You take a deep breath and approach him, one step at a time, until you’re standing over him. Jay’s eyes snap open when you say hi, smiling at you as he stands up.

“You’ll never guess what Jake let slip about you.”

The colour drains from his face, and you watch as his smile wavers. “He’s exaggerating,” he blurts out.

“Oh?” You tilt your head, feigning disappointment. “That’s too bad. I heard you’re the chicken fight master.”

For a moment, he watches you before running a hand through his hair, serious all of a sudden. “They actually call it a Jay fight where I’m from,” he tells you, shrugging, though his casual demeanour slips when you laugh, and he grins. “I’m retired now though. Wanted to go to university, do normal 21-year-old shit, you know? Change of pace.”

You roll your eyes, resting your hands on your hips. “Are you going to play with me or not, Jay?”

Deciding not to wait for his answer, you turn on your heels and walk away — perhaps with more of a sway in your hips than normal — and hoping he’ll follow. After a beat he does, footsteps padding along the grass as he jogs after you. When you look over your shoulder, his eyes are on your ass, and his ears burn red when he realises you’ve caught him staring.

A wicked grin spreads over your face as you get into the pool and Jay follows suit, much to Jeno’s great satisfaction as he calls out from the other side, “Took you long enough!” The smile on his face doesn’t quite manage the impatience in his voice.

Jay pinches his nostrils before ducking under the water, his free hand tapping your thigh—a silent signal for you to get on. Your heart was already racing just thinking about his hands on your legs, but now, as you get settled on his shoulders, his head between your thighs as he wraps his arms around them, your heart, you think, is on its last beat. As soon as he stands up straight, you notice how much more stable he is than Donghyuck, and realise that his grip on your thighs might send you into a frenzy.

He tips his head back, looking up at you with concern written all over his face. “All good?” he asks, squeezing your thighs in a way you think is meant to be reassuring, but only serves to send you into a panic.

“All good,” you repeat, breathless.

He smiles, squeezing your thighs again and the game starts before you can think about it too hard.

Being on Jay’s shoulders, feeling his strength beneath you, gives you a renewed sense of determination. Alight with competitive energy you didn’t know you could bring out for a swimming pool game, you find yourself finally pushing Aeri over. Not once. Not twice. But three consecutive times. Each time, the victory is sweeter and sweeter—Jay’s smile forcing a swell of pride to heat your chest, forcing frenzied butterflies to flutter.

With each of Aeri’s defeats, she takes longer and longer to come up from the water, though she seems delighted now that you’re actually trying, a huge grin on her face every time Jeno hoists her up into the air, wobbling a little from sweet cocktails and all the extra height she’s gained on his shoulders. And for a fourth time, she falls back into the pool, cackling to herself on the way down as you and Jay high-five.

Leave it to Jaemin to spoil everyone’s fun though, as he comes out of the house with a bottle of water in hand, and his eyes popping out of their sockets at the sight of you on Jay’s shoulders. “Looking pretty calm out there for a guy who can’t swim, huh, Jay?”

You freeze, and Jay does too, losing your balance as Jaemin’s words sink in. “Wait, what?” you ask after a beat, glancing down at him. “You can’t swim?”

Jay looks up, a sheepish yet amused smile on his face. “Not really, no.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Your eyes widen in disbelief. “Why would you get in the pool? Why would you agree to this?”

He hesitates for a moment before squeezing your thigh, lips curving into a small smile. “Because you asked me to.”

The simplicity of his answer, his honesty and his firm grip on your thighs heat your body from the inside out. You stare down at him, all thoughts of the game and everything else lost to the fondness in his eyes. It’s hard to focus on anything other than Jay and the way your heart races in your chest. For fear of saying something stupid, you decide to do something stupid instead. Your breath catches for a moment, eyes on his, hanging in the balance. Without a second thought, you screw your eyes shut and throw yourself back into the water, the splash jolting you back to reality.

“Because you asked me to,” he’d said, and what kind of response is that? Overwhelmed and waterlogged, you can’t find the words to say back. Can’t process anything but the hiss of water in your ears, the laughter of your friends. Too soon, you resurface, pushing your hair out of your face just in time to see him grinning at you, clearly amused by your display.

You have no idea how Jay manages to say the things he says so easily, or why it always moves you so much—but you are certain, without a shadow of a doubt, that this boy and that pretty mouth of his are going to be a big problem for you this summer.

Since she’s always the quickest to get ready, Minjeong is always the last to get into the shower, and you can hear her playlist through the walls. In her room, you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling mindlessly through your phone while Jimin sits cross-legged in front of the full-length mirror, digging through her makeup bag.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she starts, glancing at your reflection with a bit of hesitation. “But Minjeong told me about your little crush on Jay.”

Her words make you pause mid-scroll, the corners of your lips twitching up in amusement. “I figured she might’ve told you,” you say, setting your phone down. “Though I’m not sure there’s much to do about it. He’s cute, sure, but..”

Jimin twists around to face you, careful not to topple her drink. “Minjeong also told me about your whole.. self-sabotage thing,” she adds cautiously.

A resigned laugh slips out of you. “Yeah, that sounds like Minjeong.”

Along with her softening facial expression, her tone becomes gentler too. “No one’s saying you have to, like, marry the guy, but if you like him — or even if you just think he’s cute — maybe it’s worth giving it a shot. Wouldn’t you rather look back and know you tried, instead of wondering what might’ve been?”

Try as you might, you can’t keep your smile from faltering. Even though your group and friendship with Jaemin survived, it took a long time for that to seem like a viable option, for you to hear his name without an ache in your chest—all because you wanted to give it a shot. You do your best to remind yourself that Jimin’s only being supportive, that things don’t have to end badly this time, but you can’t shake the bitter taste in your mouth at the thought—like your body’s way of warning you about making the same mistake twice.

“I’ll think about it,” you say after a beat, voice too formal, too stiff.

Jimin doesn’t let up though, only grinning at you and nodding her head like you’ve made a promise. “If you’re worried about him being a dick or something, don’t be. Jay’s too nice for his own good.”

“So I keep hearing.”

She gives you a look, assessing you for a second before laughing. “Only because it’s true.” And with that, she turns back to the mirror as the shower cuts off.

Over the next hour, the three of you finish getting ready, right on time for Jeno to pick you all up for pres at Aeri’s. Nobody mentions Jay until you get there. When you get out of the car, Jeno gives you a once over, smiling to himself as the waning 10 p.m. sun shows off the mischief in his eyes.

“Is Jay coming tonight?” he asks.

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking about it,” you lie, thankful that Jimin and Minjeong are too busy with each other to expose you—or leave the car.

Jeno, on the other hand, is not so easily fooled and he raises a sceptical eyebrow but keeps his mouth shut.

“Okay, fine,” you admit, sighing. “I was thinking he might be, but I’m not sure.”

The girls choose this moment to leave the car, and you wait for traffic to pass by before crossing the road to Aeri’s building. A satisfied laugh curls up Jeno’s entire face, his shoulders shaking as he holds the door open. “Well, whether he shows up or not, at least you look nice,” he says in a tone that leaves you wondering where the teasing ends and the compliment begins.

In her living room, Aeri’s putting glasses on the table as music spills out from her JBL speaker, bass thrumming through the wall. She’s standing in front of the globe floor lamp she bought on Facebook Marketplace last week, silhouetted in soft yellow, glowing at the edges in the dark room, and so stunning in her cute black dress. Jeno thinks so too, gasping beside you when he sees her. He wastes no time giving her a hug, whispering in her ear, making her giggle—bright and carefree, beaming up at him. The smile doesn’t leave her face as she waves at you and the other girls. You hug her and follow her to the fridge, helping carry over the drinks — a six-pack of cider, three bottles of soju, and a bottle of lemonade — and the five of you settle around the table, Jimin on Minjeong’s lap so there’s room for everyone.

Aeri’s place might just be your favourite, cosy and just big enough for a handful of you to hang out, always quieter and more intimate than the chaos of a day spent at your apartment or Yizhuo’s. Everyone else is meeting at Mark’s house for the party, while you, Minjeong and Jimin opted to ride with Jeno, which led to Aeri offering to host the four of you for pre-drinks.

Beaming, she pulls up a Power Hour video on her laptop, turning the screen so everyone can see the timer. A rush of dread washes over you as you eye your glass, kindly filled up by Jeno with a 1:1 ratio of cider and soju that tastes startlingly juice-like. In the seat across from you — self-appointed designated driver — Jeno’s taking huge gulps of water as each minute passes quicker than the last, conversation becoming funnier and funnier, grimaces fading into smiles. You’re about fifteen minutes in when Jeno’s phone lights up with Donghyuck’s name on it and he answers with a smile, putting him on speaker. Muffled music comes through the phone as Donghyuck complains, as always, about how late you all are and how stupid he looks standing by himself.

“It’s okay, Hyuckie!” Jimin starts, pausing only to hiccup. “You’re still going to look stupid when we’re all together.” Her words are running into each other already, her plan of alternating shots of soju and lemonade not quite working out the way she’d expected.

“Thanks, bud. That means a lot,” Donghyuck deadpans, and you can hear his eye roll through the phone.

Minjeong covers Jimin’s mouth with her hand and Jeno gives her a grateful smile, taking the phone off speaker and bringing it to his ear. “We’ll leave in five, send me the address,” he says before hanging up. With a bright smile, he tucks his phone away before downing the last of his water, unprompted by the video. “Drink up, and let’s go.”

With the timer zeroing in on eighteen minutes, you don’t take your eyes off the screen and finish off your drink when the video tells you to. The warmth of soju and cider settles in your stomach as you stand up, limbs suddenly lighter. Jimin giggles beside you, leaning into Minjeong, who gives her a soft smile, her own laughter bubbling up in response.

As you gather your things and head for the door, Aeri slips her arm through yours, her head leaning on your shoulder. “You look so pretty, I love this dress on you,” she tells you quietly, pinching your waist. “Drink as much as you want tonight, I’ll take care of you.” She holds out her pinky finger towards you, wagging it as she waits for you to lock your finger with hers.

You smile, locking your pinky with hers to seal the promise and keeping them locked until you reach the car. The warmth of her words sticks with you as you buckle your seatbelt, and without even realising it, you’re smoothing out your dress and checking your makeup in your phone camera. Jay and curiosity about his attendance tonight creep into your thoughts, wrapping around your mind like a vine.

Jimin and Minjeong instruct Aeri to turn the volume up to full blast, belting out California Gurls like their lives depend on it, but even the bass, frying the speakers and rattling against your calf can’t distract you—your curiosity won’t loosen up. It follows you down the street, through Mark’s front door and straight into the thick, pulsing thrum of the party. Even the start of your favourite party song thudding through the house, vibrating in your chest like a heartbeat, isn’t enough to shake the hold Jay has on your mind.

It’s not until Jaehyun hugs you, handing you a drink you recognise to be his signature vodka lemonade right when you smell it — though lemonade-tinged vodka would be a better name for your new drink — that you’re finally tugged back down to earth, back into the moment. This moment, in Mark Lee’s parents’ hallway with guests flooding in by the second, weed, cologne and a plug-in air freshener mingling under your nose in a way you won’t say you dislike.

Jaemin hugs you next, and it’s only when he says he thought you came with Minjeong that you realise she and Jimin have disappeared from your side—he laughs when you tell him you did. With a raised brow, he ducks down to sniff the cup Jaehyun gave you and immediately recoils, shaking his head before replacing the cup with his own.

He leans down, mouth against your ear, whispered words tickling your skin. “Pace yourself, Duckie,” he says protectively, though barely a second later, you hear a grin spread over his lips. “Got a feeling you might want to remember tonight.” Straightening up, Jaemin winks at you, nodding towards the kitchen.

Knowing Jaemin, any number of things could be waiting for you over the threshold, and as much as you’re hoping it’s Jay, you’re a little more excited to see him than what you think is appropriate. Grin still sitting on his lips, Jaemin slings an arm over Jaehyun’s shoulders and the two take off towards the front door. With a deep breath, you lift his cup to your lips, hoping the alcohol will help you loosen up a bit, and maybe if it wasn’t a cup of water, it might have.

Seeming to sense your thoughts, Aeri distracts you by throwing herself around to the music and you can’t help but join in, Jeno following suit as he laughs at your dancing. You’re not sure who’s responsible for the playlist, but you won’t pretend like you’re not having the time of your life jumping around to Black Eyed Peas and Nirvana.

Mid-headbang, Jeno nudges you hard enough to jostle your cup, cool water spilling over your fingers and slipping down your wrist. You blink, eyes locked on his finger instead of what it’s pointing at. “There’s your boy,” he says in your ear, voice low and teasing.

Your heart kicks up a notch as you turn—and there he is. Your boy.

With Huh Yunjin.

Jay’s standing by the counter, nodding slowly at her. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can hear how loud she’s laughing about it, her head falling back as her hand hits his bicep, lingering before falling to his forearm and then back to her side. Yunjin flirting, that much is clear—flipping her silky dark hair, batting her long lashes at him. And Jay is.. he’s smiling. A lot. That same easy grin you’ve been daydreaming about for the past few weeks.

When you look back at Jeno, his smile doesn’t falter, bright and sweet, reassuring. “He’s just being nice,” he says, waving a hand dismissively like it’s obvious.

Maybe it is.

Either way, you need to get out of here.

Unfortunately, the kitchen is your closest escape route, a narrow corridor of laughter and sticky floors, the sharp smell of spilt beer, and something frying in a pan. Laughter rings louder in here, or maybe it’s just Yunjin’s—bright, clear, happy. You don’t dare glance at them. Your feet move faster, eyes fixed on the smudged glass of the back door. The LEDs in the kitchen are too vivid, shifting through the spectrum at what must be lightspeed, catching on the edges of Jay’s smile—you can feel it even if you refuse to look. Her laugh spills through the air, wrapping around you, making the room smaller.

Under your hand, the door gives easily, like it understands your urgency, and as soon as you step outside, the air is thicker than you remember—a stuffy night that might swallow you whole, and you find yourself staring at the sky. Despite being indistinguishable from one another, meshing to create a great, thick purple mass over your head, you can’t deny how beautiful the clouds still are. You don’t mean to get so caught up in the sight, but it happens, forcing you to take a seat in the dry grass before you even realise it.

There is, you’ve found, something quite humbling about getting second, third, and fourth opinions on your outfit after perfecting your hair and makeup, only to be bested by a girl with bright pink star-shaped pimple patches on, wearing a baby tee and baggy jorts—the outfit you’d changed out of in favour of Aeri’s black dress that’s a guaranteed compliment magnet.

The clouds, while messy, are a good distraction from what you saw inside, which.. was nothing, ultimately. It’s not like it’s against the law to laugh and drink with a girl. Is it? You shake your head to clear the thought. The clouds are pretty and everyone around you is having a good time, so you should too.

You hear Jay’s voice before you see him, smile audible around his words, each syllable dripping with excitement. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you!” he calls out from behind you. It’s the kind of statement that might come off as cliché, mildly ridiculous if it weren’t for the fact that Jay said it. And because it is Jay — and because you are drunk — it feels like something else entirely. Something you can’t quite put your finger on but makes your heart stutter all the same.

When he reaches you, he asks if he can sit and you nod, patting the spot beside you in the grass. Jay doesn’t hesitate to sit down, leaving no space between the two of you, thigh pressed against yours like there’s no other option—like it belongs there. His lips curl up even more, and there’s that smile, beautiful even in the dark—a little lopsided, entirely irresistible. The kind of smile you haven’t seen since the night you met, drunken giddiness written all over it, eyes twinkling at you. For a split second, you remember Yunjin’s hand on his arm, how he’d smiled at her. But here he is, beside you now, all of his attention on you, and it’s hard to remember why you’d been bothered at all. With your heart beating in the back of your throat, you turn away from him, head tilting towards the sky again, eyes locked on the clouds.

Jay doesn’t take his eyes off you. “What’re we looking at?” he asks, voice thick with curiosity.

“The clouds,” you say softly, raising your arm to point at the sky as if he might not understand. “They’re kind of a mess tonight—I can’t make anything out.”

At this, he follows your gaze, leaning back on his hands. You turn your head instinctively, attention on him and the straight slope of his nose. His smile doesn’t fade, his dimple is still showing. He looks so good it’s unreasonable—how could you ever look at another guy and be anything remotely close to interested again? It seems like getting to watch him watch the clouds is the universe’s way of rewarding you for existing.

“Huh.. I can’t make anything out either,” he says finally. “But, I really like your dress. A lot, you look so beautiful, I like it.”

An audible smile stretches your lips, heart tripping over itself as you thank him, cheeks burning enough to rival the summer heat.

Silence falls between you and it’s as if the world has shrunk down to you two and the murky sky above—sounds of the party quieting to a distant hum as they fade into the background. It’s nice, more comfortable than maybe it should be, though fleeting because Jay’s quick to break it, amusement clear in his voice when he says, “Jaehyun is so gone, by the way. I don’t know if you’ve seen him, but he’s completely fucked.”

You can’t help but laugh, finding the image easy to picture even without seeing him tonight. “Yeah, Jeno’s on DD tonight. Poor guy, I think Jaehyun’s just trying to make up for all the drinks Jen’s missing.”

Jay considers this for a while, head nodding in slow contemplation before he chuckles—a low, sardonic sound. “Jeno’s.. he’s a solid guy.”

This makes you laugh too, a soft smile on your lips as you agree, perhaps too dreamily. “Yeah, he is.”

“You two seem really close,” he blurts out, all subtlety lost to alcohol.

“We are really close.” You shrug, fighting a smile. “He likes to pretend we all annoy him, but I know he likes us relying on him—so I’m always asking him for help with things, even if I know I can do it myself.”

Jay turns his head slightly, his eyes still on you, but there’s something different in his gaze now that makes your breath catch. It’s soft again, more than you’ve ever seen it as a small smile curves his lips. “You’re always looking after everyone, aren’t you?”

You wonder if his question is a trap, but step into it anyway. “I’m trying to,” you admit, keeping your answer short before you start monologuing about how much you love doing it.

Your response only makes his smile widen, a soft look in his eyes when he says, “Maybe I should start looking after you, then. You keep focusing on everyone else, and I’ll focus on you.”

A tickly flutter goes off in your stomach at his words. It’s so Jay to say something like that and mean it, and it works on you every single time.

“Yeah, alright,” you say, giving in. “Maybe you should.”

Ever since you got Jay’s number, you’ve been hyper aware of the fact that you have it. His name, Park Jay, nestled snugly between Na Jaemin and Park Jisung in your contact list, sticks out like a sore thumb—reminding you of the fact that you haven’t used it yet, even though you want to.

Jay, choosing to be a gentleman — you think — had asked if you wanted his number after Mark’s party like it wasn’t a big deal and beamed when you said yes—placing the ball firmly in your court. And there it’s been, for a whole week, sitting at your feet, collecting dust.

Minjeong’s teasing has been lighthearted enough, poking her head into your room and asking if you’ve texted him yet quickly becoming part of her daily routine. And shaking your head while mumbling a refutation has quickly become part of yours. But when Minjeong teams up with Jimin? That’s another story entirely. Emboldened by her girlfriend, Minjeong’s pestering is relentless. After an hour of being ignored — even though you’re wedged between them on the couch — you find yourself wishing for the constant teasing instead.

Enough is enough.

Your frustration reaches a peak, forcing you off the couch. “Fine!” you say, shocking yourself, and the girls with your volume. “What should I say?”

Jimin gives you a wicked grin, eyes glowing with mischief, but Minjeong is quick to rein her in. “Just ask if he wants to hang out tonight.”

“Tonight? Minjeong, it’s six o’clock!” you say, scandalised at the mere suggestion.

“What are you, eighty? It’s barely evening!” Jimin scoffs, rolling her eyes.

Minjeong shakes her head. “No, this is perfect. If he takes a while to respond, it won’t be too late to make new plans.”

“Takes a while to respond?” Jimin repeats, eyes wide with shock. She groans dramatically, throwing her head back. “This is YN we’re talking about. The poor guy’s probably been glued to his phone all week, wondering what’s taking so long.”

The visual, while unrealistic, makes you giddy all the same—the thought of Jay pacing around his apartment, phone in hand, getting his hopes up when it goes off, only to sigh when he realises it’s not you. You can’t help getting carried away while the girls go back and forth, imagining what it might be like when you finally text him, losing his cool over a simple: Hey, it’s YN. Sorry, I took so long, been busy. Apparently, in this version of events, you’re a cool girl™—vague, mysterious, and nonchalant. Confident, cocky even, but no one cares because you’re hot and everyone knows it.

In the spirit of the cool girl™, you pull up his contact and start typing, sending your message without hesitation.

You: Hey, I was just wondering if you’re free tn and maybe we could hang out?

You: This is YN btw………

Against all the odds, as Jimin predicted, Jay replies immediately, like he’d truly been waiting by the phone for you to text. You’re so taken aback by his response that you gasp, causing both girls’ heads to snap in your direction, eyes wide with anticipation. But you’re too caught up trying to process the speed of his reply to relay the fact it happened at all.

“What?” They say in unison. “What is it?”

“YN!” you read out loud, snapping back to reality. “Good hearing from you, I was actually about to start making dinner.”

“I told you! I told you!” Jimin jumps to her feet, joy radiating from every single part of her. In the middle of her celebration, your phone vibrates with another text from him, and she reads it aloud over your shoulder. “If you haven’t eaten already, we could eat together?”

At this, Minjeong gets up too, standing on your other side as he starts typing again.

Jay: And if you have eaten already, maybe you could just keep me company while I eat?

The girls immediately spring into action, running to your bedroom before you’ve even had a chance to send a reply to him. After minimal deliberation, you tell him you haven’t eaten yet, and Jay asks if you like steak. With your plans confirmed, and butterflies in your stomach, you join the girls, sighing when you see the state of your room—wardrobe doors flung open, your dresser drawers all varying levels of ajar, and potential outfits laid out on the bed.

Despite the mess they’ve made, having the girls around to help out has really taken a weight off your shoulders, and as you pull your favourite skirt over your hips, you can’t help but let out a sigh of relief. In your full-length mirror, you assess the outfit — with Minjeong and Jimin grinning at either side of you like your fairy godmothers — and nod your head, deeming it worthy. Cute and simple enough to seem effortless despite the thirty minutes it took all three of you to agree on it.

With your makeup done and a strawberry margarita — which Jimin coerced you into drinking ‘for confidence’ — heating your stomach, the two girls finally dismiss you, watching you walk to the bus stop from the living room window, yelling a stream of good lucks and tell us everythings.

On Jay’s doorstep, you can’t help but linger, wondering if it’s not too late to walk away. Wondering how on earth you went from sitting in silence on the couch to standing outside of the door to — what feels like — the rest of your life in a matter of hours. Doubts creep in, and the bottle of wine poking out of your bag starts feeling like a bit much, a box of chocolates might have sufficed. Maybe you should have come empty-handed; it’s not like this is a date or anything.

Right?

Jay answers the door when you knock on it. Handsome as ever with a wide smile on his face, a button-up and loose jeans hanging from his frame—exuding an effortlessness that has you weak in the knees. You barely manage to get all the way through saying hello to him when he pulls you into a hug, the light scent of laundry detergent and something warm, sweet, hits your nostrils, distracting you from the weight of his arms around your shoulders, and how at ease you suddenly are.

“Did you get here okay? I know the route from the bus stop can be kind of tricky.” His hold on you loosens, though his scent lingers. Concern knits his brows together, eyes boring into yours as his lips pout around his words. “I wish you would’ve let me pick you up.”

Butterflies go wild in your stomach as you smile at him, shaking your head. “I got on just fine, Jay, stop worrying,” you assure him—like the five-minute walk, as Google Maps predicted, hadn’t taken you ten minutes.

Jay stares down at you like he doesn’t believe you, though he doesn’t press you on it, only stepping aside to let you in. He tells you that you look so pretty, that he’s happy to see you as you take your shoes off by the door, and, shyly, you mumble your thanks, cheeks burning. Immediately, you take the bottle of wine from your bag, holding it out to him. With both hands, he accepts it, grinning at you, gratitude clear in his eyes. Behind him, there’s a white console table—stylish and sleek, yes, but it’s the painting leaning against it that catches your eye. A landscape, abstract with thick strokes of lush greens, and blocky white masses scattered over what looks like a blue sky. Jay follows your eyeline over his shoulder, looking back at you with a smile.

“It’s new, Hoon brought it when he got back from visiting his parents, his little sister painted it.”

Nosy, you nod eagerly when Jay offers a tour of his apartment—it’s spotless. Cleaner than the place you and Minjeong share, which admittedly, with all the hosting you’ve been doing, has a habit of getting messy within hours of straightening up. All of the furniture is sleek, modern yet tasteful, leaps and bounds away from the micro-trend hellscapes that some of the other guys you know inhabit.

Sunghoon’s bedroom door is propped open, and Jay lets you peek inside, though begs you not to cross the threshold because he’ll know. With a smile on his face, he explains that it’s the bigger of the two rooms and that they played rock, paper, scissors to see who would get it—though both boys walked away victorious, with Sunghoon winning the bigger room, and Jay winning the en-suite. It might be the tidiest bedroom you’ve seen in your life, nothing looks like it’s not in place. Even his rug is perfectly aligned, running parallel to the bed, and the only thing on his dresser is a framed photo of Sunghoon and his friends, sitting dead centre.

“Is he home tonight?” you ask, suddenly noting the stillness of the apartment.

Jay’s answer takes a moment to come out, a look on his face that tells you he wasn’t expecting you to ask. “I.. I sort of kicked him out when you agreed to come over,” he admits, looking down at his feet. There’s a bashfulness to his demeanour that you’re not used to seeing from him, but endears you nonetheless. A giggle slips out when you see the red flush spreading over his neck.

Only as he continues leading you through the apartment does your solitude, and its weight, dawn on you—the fact that he went out of his way to ensure you’d be alone. Your heart skips a beat, imagination spiralling out of control as you wonder what this might mean about tonight, or if Jay has any expectations. Before you even have the chance to picture his button-up slipping down his shoulders, rationale reels you back in. You’d have done the same if roles were reversed—asking Minjeong to leave. Not because of ‘expectations’, but to rid you both of the pressure of having an audience.

In contrast, Jay’s room is full of clutter—though somehow remains tidy. All of his likes and interests greet you from every corner—walls covered in posters, trinkets on his desk, a handful of plushies on his bed, a full guitar stand by the door, and a glass display cabinet housing his collection of whiskey and signed records. With utmost reverence, he takes a moment to tell you about his most prized possession, a signed copy of Definitely Maybe by Oasis.

“I was so distracted trying to bid for that on the train, I ended up like four towns over and the ticket inspector charged me crazy. Worth it though.”

“I bet,” you agree with a smile, feeling like you understand him better after having seen his room.

As Jay leads you to the kitchen, you can’t stop yourself from saying, “I never thought you’d be such a neat freak.”

He chuckles, raising a brow as he looks at you. “You think about me?”

This makes you stutter, unsure how to respond and Jay nudges you gently with his elbow.

“I’m teasing, relax.” He’s smirking though, triumphant looking. “It’s all Hoon’s doing,” he admits after a beat. “I probably wouldn’t be so tidy if it wasn’t for him picking up after me all the time when we roomed together in first year. He made it a habit.”

Everything is laid out on the counter, waiting to be cooked, and Jay ties a black apron around his waist, suddenly becoming very cinched in his oversized clothes, the breadth of his shoulders standing out to you like a third person in the room. Right when you offer to help him out, Jay offers you a drink. You say yes. Jay says no.

“Should we open the bottle?” he asks, reaching for it when you nod. “I wouldn’t invite you over for dinner then make you cook it, come on, YN, have some faith in me.”

“Alright, alright,” you concede, shy under his soft gaze.

With a nod, Jay reaches into one of the cabinets behind him, pulling out two glasses and opening the bottle. He pours the wine into both of them, filling one about halfway, while you stand around awkwardly, lingering by the counter. With the fuller glass in hand, he steps past you, setting it down on the table and pulling out a chair.

“You can sit down if you’d like,” he offers, eyes meeting yours as his hands rest on the back of the chair.

A smile tugs at your lips, and you nod. “I’d like,” you say, sitting down. “How come you filled mine up so much?” you ask.

“If it were just me, I’d drive home after two glasses and some time, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything when I’m taking you home, so I just poured a little so I could try it.”

You nod, not even trying to argue on the point of him driving you home later because it already took you ten minutes to convince him to let you make your own way to his. With a smile, Jay clinks his glass against yours and the two of you take a sip.

To you, wine is wine—you like white, you love rosé, and you can tolerate red if you’re already drunk. To Jay, it seems, wine is an experience—a great one if the appreciative hum he lets out while examining the label is anything to go by.

“You know your shit, huh? White doesn’t typically go with steak, but chardonnay is beautiful, this one especially,” he comments after a sip, setting down his glass.

“Really?” When Jay nods in response, you smile. “Lucky guess,” you tell him, shrugging.

This is not entirely untrue—if the definition of a ‘lucky guess’ can be stretched to include meticulous research into finding out which white wine pairs best with steak, and pulling a highly recommended (and affordable) bottle from the shelf at the shop after reading an argument on the r/wine subreddit.

“Are you sure you don’t need a hand?” you ask again.

Jay nods. “I promise.”

“There’s really nothing I can do to help?”

“Just let me do something nice for you,” he says, though it comes out like a question, like a sincere request.

It’s nice, albeit weird, to have him — to have anyone — insist on taking care of you when you’re perfectly capable. Of course, Jeno’s always there to take you home when you’ve had too much to drink, and Minjeong will always make you soup and hot tea when you have the flu, but neither of them would ever insist on doing all the work, while you, unencumbered by alcohol or illness, sit there and watch.

Jay’s words echo in your head, each one slowly sinking in with tangible weight and then hitting you all at once. You keep focusing on everyone else, and I’ll just focus on you. He’s keeping his promise, you realise. Without prompt or reminder, not out of obligation or expectation, but simply because he can and wants to. This realisation changes the way he looks to you—he’s softer around the edges somehow, hazy like an apparition, glowing under the soft warm cast of the lightbulb over your heads.

It’s at this moment, here in Jay’s kitchen, that you realise this isn’t just a silly crush anymore.

As dreamy as the situation is, with a handsome man — who is not only kind, but is living and breathing and single — about to make a meal for you, it’s not the ideal moment for such an epiphany.

At the table, you sit with one leg crossed over the other, admiring the various magnets and photos stuck to the fridge, showing off trips to different countries and nights out immortalised in 6x4 prints, pretending like you feel a healthy and appropriate amount of affection for the man in front of you. All the while he moves around the kitchen, washing his hands before opening a packet of spaghetti. He falters, staring at it like it’s some kind of puzzle, but he doesn’t speak up until he notices your eyes on him.

“I swear I know what I’m doing,” he mumbles, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

You smile, amused. “I don’t doubt it.”

Jay empties some of the noodles into his palm, holding it in his hand and eyeing it for a beat before extending it to you with wide eyes. “Do you think that’s enough for one serving?”

Tilting your head, you try to remember the general rule. “I think it’s meant to be about the size of a coin.”

“Yeah?” he asks, nodding along. “Which one?”

“I.. have no idea.”

Jay grins, wide and boyish — butterfly-inducing — shaking his head. “Great advice, YN. Thanks.”

It only takes a quick Google search to restore his confidence, and before long, the kitchen is filled with the sound of boiling water bubbling away on the stove as the pasta softens into it. In the meantime, he cracks two eggs into a bowl, whisking them together before grating a generous amount of cheese into the mixture. You watch him with interest, leaning over a little. For Jay, the cooking process is a much more serious practice than when you do it—lucky to find yourself making more than a pot of ramen or rice in the cooker.

“Did you put olive oil in the water?” you ask, genuinely curious.

Jay smiles, shaking his head. “You’re not supposed to. At least, they don’t in Italy.”

“Ahh,” you hum, nodding thoughtfully. “When in Rome.”

He finds this hilarious, laughing as he stirs the mixture. “When in Rome,” he repeats to himself under his breath, trying the phrase on for size.

Even with his attention back on the task at hand, focused on making dinner — a simple but delicious meal, steak and pasta, his speciality, he’d said — his enthusiasm is subtle yet hard to miss. It’s not lost on you how his eyes light up when he lifts the dark green sleeve on the end of the counter, taking out a shiny knife. It's new, he tells you, before launching into a story about how he ran around like a madman this afternoon trying to get it sharpened. A proud grin on his face as he shows you the spot on the bottom of the blade where his name is engraved.

It’s clear as day that cooking is more than a hobby for him, but a passion—a fact that shows itself to you as the process continues. From the way his tongue pokes out between his lips while he works to how carefully he handles each of the ingredients—chopping vegetables delicately, only seasoning the steaks on one side, and going so far as to wrap them in twine so they keep their shape. He doesn’t skimp out on presentation either. He uses chopsticks to twirl the pasta in the pan before moving it carefully to the centre of the plate, twirling it again for good measure. The first one comes out beautifully, restaurant-worthy, and the second one—not so much. Even after a few attempts, the pasta still refuses to cooperate, and the tips of his ears flush.

“Only one of them needs to look good,” he mumbles, a sheepish smile on his face as he looks up at you. “This one’s mine.” His honesty is endearing, and you grin despite yourself as you watch him chop the cooked steak, sheer concentration written all over his face.

After a while, he looks up from the chopping board, his gaze meeting yours, a hint of nervousness in his eyes. “Sorry if I’m being weird,” he blurts out. “I don’t normally cook in front of anyone besides my mum.”

A soft smile plays on your lips as you try to ignore the butterflies flitting about in your stomach. “You’re not being weird, don’t worry about it,” you assure him, doing your best to sound calm and collected. To sound like someone who’s not reading too much into being one of the first people to see him cook. “If anything, I’m the weirdo who can’t take her eyes off you.”

Jay chuckles at this, a grin spreading across his face as he shakes his head. “That makes two of us.”

With more success, he moves the chopped steak from board to plate, setting the sauteed vegetables on the side. A sigh of relief slips out of him, proud of his work, and he smiles at you, carrying your plate to the table and setting it down in front of you before bringing over his own plate and glass.

Steam brings the smell straight to your nose, so enticing already that you have to suppress a moan—though you can’t do anything about the quiet rumbling of your stomach. The food looks beautiful, so beautiful that without thinking, you pull out your phone and snap a picture, knowing that this moment — this meal — will linger in your mind long after tonight, no matter what ends up happening between you and Jay.

As you set your phone down, his eyes are lit up with anticipation. You wonder if he notices the way he’s leaning forward, watching you expectantly, like a student awaiting a teacher’s critique, eager for you to take that first bite. The weight of his gaze makes you nervous, but as another, particularly tempting, waft of steak tickles your nostrils, you pick up your fork and tuck in.

Life begins, in earnest you think, the moment the food touches your tongue. It’s a simple meal, a carbonara with steak, but it’s unlike anything you’ve eaten in your life. Your eyes flutter shut and you slump in your seat a little, a low hum of approval escaping your lips. The steak is tender, perfectly seasoned, and the pasta is rich, creamy, the perfect balance of flavours. Delicious isn’t enough of a word—you’re not even sure if heavenly would cut it either.

When you finally open your eyes, Jay’s watching you intently, his expression a mixture of pride and nervousness, as if he’s hanging onto every minute detail of your reactions, deciphering it. The way his gaze softens when he sees your smile makes your heart flutter. You nod your head, still savouring the taste, and find yourself at a loss for words. All you can manage is a breathless, “Holy shit.”

Jay doesn’t relax quite yet. “Is that a good ‘holy shit’ or a bad one?”

“Are you kidding? It’s an incredible ‘holy shit’, the best ‘holy shit’ I’ve ever uttered,” you say, eyes wide in disbelief that he could even think otherwise.

Finally, he grins and it’s everything, his shoulders relaxing as a wave of relief seems to wash over him. You watch him, awestruck, absently stabbing at a chunk of steak.

“I take it you like cooking then?” you ask dumbly.

Jay nods, laughing a little. “It’s fun.”

“It’s a lot of work.”

“I’m not scared of hard work.” He shrugs, smile unwavering, though there’s something in his eyes that you can’t make out. “It was, like, my second ever dream—to be a chef.”

Curious, you raise an eyebrow. “What was your first dream?”

“I—uh..” Jay’s cheeks redden as he chuckles, twirling pasta on his fork, but he doesn’t seem embarrassed. “I had wanted to sell watermelons, at first. My mum has, like, at least three years’ worth of icebreaker sheets from primary school where I wrote about wanting to be a watermelon salesman.”

You can’t help but laugh, covering your mouth with your hand, thinking fondly of a tiny Jay with twinkling eyes and dreams of watermelons. “Why watermelons?”

“They’re my favourite,” he says simply.

You hum in response. “When did law come into the picture?” you ask.

Jay tilts his head, pausing to chew as he considers this. “Sort of late, honestly. I think I was.. around seventeen? I just knew I wanted to help people—so I had also thought about being a doctor, a social worker, a teacher, but I chose law. I’m not sure why, but my parents were really happy when I brought it up, so..” He trails off, taking a sip from his glass. “They’re super supportive, so it’s not like they pressured me or anything, it’s just.. they sacrificed a lot for me, and I’m their only kid, so I feel like I should give them something to be proud of.”

You pause, the food on your fork and his words hanging in the air, and you’re not really sure what to say. Jay seems to sense this, quickly adding, “But I love studying law, so it could be a lot worse.”

Nodding, you smile at him. “And at least you’ll get to help people.”

His smile returns. “At least I’ll get to help people.” He seems pleased with this as if realising it for the first time. A moment passes as he considers it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get biblical during our first time hanging out.”

A soft laugh comes out of you as you sit up straighter in your seat. “If this is your version of biblical, I think I could get used to it.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” He grins.

As the meal goes on, you can’t stop gushing over his cooking skills and Jay can’t stop beaming at you, humbly accepting your compliments as his cheeks grow redder and redder. Long after your plates are clear, the two of you stay at the table, conversation meandering through various topics, with him asking about your plans after studying Literature — which you haven’t completely finalised, and he assures you that’s okay — and the two of you discovering that your Brownie and Cub Scout troops were being run out of the same church hall. You laugh and chat, the rhythm between you only growing more and more comfortable as the night stretches on.

Eventually, you stand up and start gathering the dishes, despite Jay’s immediate protest. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, though there’s a soft, resigned smile on his face that tells you he knows better than to try and stop you.

“Too late,” you tease, stacking plates and taking them to the sink.

He follows, grumbling half-heartedly about how you’re supposed to be relaxing, but you shake your head, rolling up your sleeves as you help him load the dishwasher. “You know, I’m not happy about this,” Jay mumbles, handing you another pan. His words might have held more weight if it weren’t for the playful glint in his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, sure you’re not.” You grin despite yourself as you slot the last dish into place.

With the kitchen tidied up, the two of you stay on your feet, watching each other until you reach for your glass on the counter beside you, taking a slow sip and finishing the last of your wine.

“Top up?” he asks, raising the bottle, eyebrows quirked up.

You consider it for a moment before nodding. “Yes, please.”

Jay nods, filling your glass before pouring himself a glass of water instead. He leans back against the counter, taking a sip, and you have to make an effort to tear your eyes off of him, looking over at the fridge instead.

“These are so cute,” you say, gesturing towards the magnets and photos on the door. “Looks like you’ve been to some cool places.”

He smiles, stepping closer to the fridge — closer to you — as if seeing it anew through your eyes. “Yeah, some of these are from trips with the guys. I love magnets, and Hoon basically worships his film camera, so he’s always getting pictures of us doing stupid shit—he doesn’t leave the house without it.”

You lean in, getting a closer look, examining the photos with curiosity. It’s hard not to notice that Jay is always smiling when he sees the camera on him, a sincere grin from ear to ear no matter who he’s with or where he is. He shrugs when you point it out.

“It’s not something I think much about. I guess I always find myself around things, or people, worth smiling about.”

His words make your heart stutter, a warmth spreading through you that you’re sure has nothing to do with the wine. For a split second, the air around you changes, charged with something you don’t have the wits to put a finger on. So you take another sip from your glass and look up at him. “Lucky you,” you say.

“Yeah.” Jay’s eyes find yours, a small smile curving his lips. “Lucky me.”

At your request, he spends a while telling you the story behind some of the photos, until you somehow know the lore behind each one, and Jay asks if you want to hang out in the living room. The two of you chat mindlessly on the couch, inching towards each other little by little, and it’s not until Minjeong sends you a text asking if you’re coming home that either of you realise it’s well after midnight already.

“Wow, it’s late,” you say, a mix of surprise and reluctance in your voice.

Jay glances at his watch, eyebrows raising. “I guess time really does fly when you’re exchanging embarrassing stories about Jaehyun.”

Laughing again, you stand up from the couch, getting your things together as Jay takes your long-empty glass to the kitchen. Before long, you’re getting into his car and heading home. The quiet hum of the radio is lost entirely to conversation, a grin on his face as Jay tells you he finally had time to check out How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, and that it was every bit as good as you said it was that night at the bonfire.

At the bonfire—it feels like years have gone by since then.

You were confident you remembered every last detail of the conversation you shared that night, but it’s only when Jay brings up the movie that the moment comes back to you. You hadn’t even said it was a favourite of yours — which it is — just that you bought the yellow bikini you were wearing because it reminded you of the colour of Kate Hudson’s dress in the movie. The fact that Jay took the time to watch the movie at all makes your heart skip a beat.

Your heart has a funny way of doing that when he’s around.

Time slips away without warning, and before you know it, the car slows to a gentle stop. You blink, slightly disoriented, to find your building right in front of you. Jay’s already unbuckling his seatbelt when you find your voice, it’s softer than you mean for it to be but insistent nonetheless, telling him he doesn’t need to walk you up. But Jay, ever so stubborn in his quiet way, is out of the car before you realise, rounding to your side and opening the door with a smile.

“What kind of guy doesn’t walk a girl up after driving her home?” he asks, his brow knitting in a way that feels both sincere and playful as you step out.

You tilt your head, adjusting your skirt. “You’d be surprised.” The words slip out before you can stop them.

Jay’s frown is fleeting, a shadow that passes as quickly as it comes. He doesn’t say anything though, simply shakes his head and locks the car. The cool air of your building embraces you as you step in, the stuffy night air left outside as the door swings shut behind you. And for the first time all evening, silence stretches over you—the sounds of your apartment complex at 1 a.m. only amplified because of it. The elevator arrives with a soft chime, and Jay gestures for you to get in first. The air in the lift is different—heavier, not with discomfort but with the weight of things unspoken, words lingering on the tips of your tongues. You wonder what he’s thinking. As the doors open up on your floor, the tension finds a way to relieve itself, though the quiet follows you out.

When you reach your door, you pause, gesturing towards it. “This is me.”

Jay’s expression shifts, a spark of playfulness behind his eyes. “No, that’s a door,” he points out, the corners of his mouth lifting into a grin that quickly breaks into laughter, rich and warm.

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your own lips is inevitable. “You’re hilarious,” you mumble, and his laughter only grows, echoing down the hall.

As his laughter fades, his expression softens, and the two of you settle into silence again.

“I’m really happy you texted me tonight,” Jay admits, a smile on his face as he speaks. “I’ve been going crazy in my apartment hoping you would—was starting to lose hope actually,” he continues in his typical manner.

So earnest yet so casual, said not just for saying’s sake, but because it’s the truth—because he wants you to know.

And in your typical manner, you are charmed, stomach turning giddily, heat rushing to your cheeks and spreading down your neck. It’s a mystery to you how you don’t melt into a puddle by his feet. You can’t help smiling, and a soft chuckle slips out of you knowing how pleased Jimin’s going to be when she finds out her prediction was correct.

“You’ve been thinking about me?” you ask, teasing him with his words from earlier.

They don’t have the same effect on him as they’d had on you, though. Jay only smiles, nodding. “Of course, I’ve been thinking about you.” He tucks his hands into his pockets, swaying gently on his heels, letting his eyes fall to your lips where they linger for more than a short while before meeting your eyes again.

“Right,” you say, suddenly nervous. “Right. Well, thanks for dinner, and for bringing me home, I had a lot of fun.”

He raises his shoulders a little, shrugging. “Anytime,” he says, and you’re sure he means it. “Thank you for coming, I had a lot of fun too.” Jay bites his bottom lip, teeth denting the plump skin.

A beat passes, slow in a good way—the two of you just looking at each other. Waiting—though for what you aren’t sure. In your ribcage, your heart hammers so hard you almost check to see if it’s visible through your shirt. You can’t stop smiling.

“Goodnight, Jay,” you say, finally.

His grin deepens, two dimples coming out to bid you goodnight as well. “Goodnight, YN.”

Even after you’ve locked the door, Jay stays exactly where you left him on your doormat for a few minutes, grinning to himself, while you watch through the peephole, grinning too. The smile on your face doesn’t fade, even as you slip off your shoes, soft steps leading you to the bathroom like you’re floating.

Your smile is unwavering, bright and beaming while you brush your teeth, though you have to try a little more to hang onto it when you get into the shower, try to let the warmth of the evening stay with you a bit longer as you drag your exfoliating glove over your skin. He’s so sweet, you think. They were right about him. It’s hard to push the thought aside, but you try, try to replace it with the thought of that smile, those dimples. He’s just nice. The words don’t leave you, no matter how hard you scrub.

The bathroom is thick with steam when you leave the shower, the heat of the water clinging to your skin even as you dry off. Your moisturiser is too slick between your fingers, too smooth, like it’s slipping away before you’ve fully grasped it. You sigh, rubbing it into your skin, its soft vanilla scent a comfort, finally, a comfort.

Minjeong is laying on your bed when you get back to your room, amongst all of your plushies, a white teddy bear your dad got for you on a trip to London tucked under her arm as she scrolls on her phone. She quickly locks it upon seeing you, sitting up, a grin on her face when she asks, “How was dinner with your boyfriend?”

The question stirs butterflies in your stomach, a smile creeping onto your own lips as you approach the bed to move your plushies, two at a time like always, to your desk. “I do not have a boyfriend,” you mutter, flustered.

“You tanked dinner?” Her voice is soft, faux disappointment dripping from it as she sighs. “Damn, we were rooting for you.”

Suddenly defensive, you look over your shoulder at her, your last two plushies in your hands, shaking a little. Not enough for Minjeong to notice, but enough that you feel it—a tremor of excitement, nerves maybe, you can’t tell. “I didn’t tank dinner either.” You can’t stop grinning at the thought, and there’s no point trying to school your expression as you approach the bed to get in. You peel the duvet back and Minjeong scooches off of it, helping you push it down to the end of the mattress as you lie down, facing each other.

Eagerness and curiosity shine in her eyes as she demands, “Tell me everything.” And so, you do.

She squeals to herself, the picture of delight as she kicks her feet, covering her face with her hands. “He’s so sweet!” she yells, so loud you have to reach out and cover her mouth with your hand. “I’m ready to be quiet now,” she mumbles into your palm. You wait for a beat before freeing her, wiping your hand on your thigh as she continues, “He really likes you, are you kidding? What are you waiting for?”

You shake your head, shutting her down immediately, shutting down your own hopes before they even have a chance to materialise again. “He’s just being nice,” you say, more for yourself than for Minjeong.

There’s no playfulness on her face anymore. “Why can’t he be nice and really like you?” No playfulness in her voice either. “Get out of your own way for once.”

Minjeong, in her way, is being kind. You know she’s being kind. The edge in her voice not matching the sweetness in her eyes, or the gentle squeeze of your hand in hers. But her words sting all the same.

You turn away from her, facing the wall instead. “Okay, yeah,” you say. “Goodnight.”

Behind you, she sighs, mumbling, goodnight, as she leaves your bed, turning off your lamp on the way out. Get out of your own way for once. You squeeze your eyes shut, tightly, willing sleep to come, but instead, all you can think about is the way Jay smiled at you tonight, how he lingered at your door. Maybe Minjeong is right. It might be nice not to run away from this—from Jay, and all the what-ifs you normally don’t allow yourself.

Whether you expected it to or not, dinner at Jay’s has changed a lot for you. Your text thread with him is rarely ever not at the top of your messages app, with him inundating your phone with Spotify and YouTube links—songs he likes and songs he doesn’t, videos he thinks are interesting and videos he thinks are stupid. And whatever the case, whether you like the song or the video, the two of you find ways to discuss them for hours on end, typing quickly, accuracy and punctuation to the wind, so the conversation never dies.

He once sent you a blurry photo of a snack he knows you like while grocery shopping with Sunghoon, and when you replied, Would give up a vital organ to trade places with you rn, he showed up at your door later, a crate of yoghurt coated banana chips in each arm. “Because they were on offer,” he told you, helping you find room for twenty-four packets of dried fruit. Knowing Jay, nice as ever, you don’t doubt he would have brought them even if they weren’t.

You’ve spent more evenings than you care to count (eleven) at his place, often sitting on the couch between him and Sunghoon, watching some of the most obscure movies you’ve ever seen, low budget horrors and religious films they found on DVD at thrift shops around town. Some nights, when Sunghoon isn’t around, the two of you talk for hours on that couch, your head on his shoulder, his arm around yours. You share secrets like this, parts of yourselves that now only the two of you know about and don’t bring up again.

Jay brings the boys to your and Minjeong’s flat whenever all your friends are over, and the two of you spend hours alone in the kitchen, sitting on the counter, sharing pizza and bottles of beer when you’re too lazy to stand up and get your own.

It’s easy to read into the moments you spend like this, analysing them in bed before you fall asleep, hours after everyone’s left and gone home—wondering if Jay meant to hug you for longer than he hugged Minjeong, if he’s actually staring at you when he thinks you can’t see or if he’s just zoning out in your general direction. Your sleep-fogged brain always struggles to settle on a conclusion. Each morning though, while you brush your teeth, it’s hard not to think about everything you’re always hearing about him. Hard not to think of Jeno and his response to your stories, voice heavy with sleep through the phone as he says, yeah that sounds like Jay, or, we’re not all saying he’s nice just for fun, you know. Rational thinking, as always, smacks your cheek with its big, rough palm. Jay has been nice to you, of course, he has, but Jay is just a nice guy, the nicest if you ask literally anyone who’s ever even breathed near him. You spit toothpaste into the sink, blue foam on white ceramic, and sigh, suddenly tired again.

Even with all the time you’ve been spending together, there are still nights like this—nights where you find yourself alone in the apartment, the quiet settling in like a comfortable weight. Minjeong’s spending the night at Jimin’s, but it’s not so bad, you’ve got snacks. You’ve got the leftover rice and bulgogi Minjeong made for dinner last night, and a chilled can of Guinness to keep you company. Initially, you thought you might start one of the shows on your growing watchlist, but you find yourself scrolling through your continue watching, on the hunt for Modern Family and beam with delight when you find it.

You make it through two episodes and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps when your phone lights up next to you on the couch. It’s a text from Jay, and then another.

Jay: Are you coming to Seunghan’s?

Jay: I don’t see any of your crew here or what but idk

A smile stretches over your lips, a giggle threatening to come out as you read the messages and read them again, wishing there was something you could do to lift the ban from Seunghan’s place, get ready, and teleport over there as quickly as possible. You wonder, though briefly, how serious Seunghan was, and if he even knew you were friends with Donghyuck—after all, he was the only one mentioned by name, and ‘your group’ could be in reference to anyone.

You: Lmaooo I didn’t even know he was hosting tn..

You: Hyuck got us all barred haha so no Seunghan’s for us tonight, or ever?

Jay: Noooo that sucks

Jay: What’s your moves tn then?

You: Idk MJ’s not here so sleep soon ig

For a while, you watch the screen as your phone shows you that he’s typing, but he stops quickly before starting again, the dancing ellipses moving for at least ten seconds before they disappear again. Showing up for a split second and leaving, your text going unanswered. Locking your phone, you hit play on the TV and try to think away your disappointment at being left on read. Two whole episodes start and finish before your phone goes off again. Jay, again.

Jay: Gonna miss you tonight :(

You: Me too lmao

Jay: Lmao.. damn 😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢?

You grin at the message, not bothering to keep your giggles to yourself as you type back.

You: I meant me toooo !!!!!!! /srs

Jay: 😸😸😸

You can’t help but think the grinning cat emoji looks like him as you put your phone down, focusing on the TV until your eyes get heavy. Knowing you’ll hate yourself if you leave your dishes in the sink, you force yourself to do the washing up now, even as you struggle to keep your eyes open. It doesn’t take too long, thankfully, and you’re drying your hands off, flicking off the kitchen light before you know it.

The knock at the door echoes through the empty flat, interrupting the soft hum of your solitude. Anxiety stirs a pit in your stomach, wondering who could possibly be here at this time, though the thought of your friends calms you down—Aeri is often more likely to come to your house unannounced after midnight than during the day. But she’s not the one standing at the door when you open it.

For a beat, you can only stare, stunned. “Jay?”

Your heart stumbles at the sight of him, swaying a little like he’s caught in some invisible tide. His hair is ruffled, cheeks flushed red, lips pulled up into a lopsided smile. All of a sudden, you feel startlingly awake.

“Hey,” he says, smile faltering. “It’s weird that I’m here, right?” His words are soft around the edges, beginnings and endings melting into each other.

You want to tell him that it isn’t, that him being here feels like the most natural thing in the world. But you don’t, only shaking your head, which seems to be enough for Jay, brings his smile back.

He bites on his bottom lip but it doesn’t stop his grin. “I just wanted to see you tonight,” he admits, and the words come out so simple, like there’s nothing more to explain. He just wanted to see you. Like it’s that easy.

There’s no one else in the hall when you look out, head turning in both directions. “How did you get here?” you ask, voice too calm for how fast your heart is racing.

He shrugs like the answer is obvious. “I walked.”

“From Seunghan’s?” Your voice spikes, disbelief pouring out of every syllable as you try to remember the distance. Hong Seunghan lives thirty minutes away by car. Your eyes widen, heart stumbling all over again. “How long did that take?”

Jay blinks slowly. “I left right after I sent you those emojis, and you left me on read. Thanks for that by the way.” His words are tumbling out now. “Twenty minutes? Maybe? I don’t remember.”

You stare at him, heart twisting in a way you weren’t expecting. He stumbles a little and you can’t bear it anymore. “You sent that text an hour ago, Jay. Get inside,” you say, reaching out to grab him and pull him inside.

With your hands loosely wrapped around his arm, you guide him through the dim hallway. He trudges against the hardwood, a slow shuffle like each step is an effort, but his eyes are wide, alive, drinking in everything around him like he’s never been in your flat before. When you open the door to your room, he stops in his tracks, blinking at the sight.

“Whoa,” he whispers, like it’s sacred. His eyes sweep over the room, taking in every detail, from the pictures on the wall to the clutter on your dresser, until they land on you. “Your bedroom,” he says, awestruck, like it’s the most important room in the world, and the thought makes your heart stutter.

It’s impossible to ignore the fluttering in your chest. You tell yourself it’s just the nerves of having a new person in your room, seeing such a personal part of you. This makes you even, you suppose, thinking of all the time you’ve spent together in his room. Still, the nervousness persists.

“I’ll get you some water,” you offer, turning quickly, desperate for a few seconds away from his gaze.

But as soon as you step toward the door, Jay moves too, like he’s not letting you go alone. “I’ll come with you.”

Sleepiness sets into your bones all at once, and you don’t have it in you to keep him upright again. You shake your head. “Stay here. I’ll be quick.”

On your bedside table, you place a glass of water and a packet of paracetamol, already picturing him needing them in the morning, all while he sits on the edge of your bed, hands tucked under his thighs, eyes on the floor. You move around him, taking your plushies off the bed and leaving them on your desk.

“I’ll take the couch,” he says suddenly. “I can’t just show up here and kick you out of your own bed.”

Your back is turned, fingers curling around the last plushie when you answer absentmindedly. “I thought we could just sleep together.” It takes a heartbeat too long for you to process what you said. Your hand freezes, plushie half in the air as the words settle over the room. You whip your head around, eyes wide. “I mean share the bed! Just sleep in the same bed.. at the same time.” The backpedalling feels ridiculous, but you can’t stop it, cheeks burning furiously.

Jay’s looking at you with a smile that’s half amused and half.. something you don’t quite recognise. “Right, YN. Sure.” He nods, the teasing lacing his voice so thick it sends a jolt of warmth through you, even as you try to untangle your embarrassment.

“I’m serious,” you say, trying to regain some kind of footing. “I share the bed with my friends all the time, of course we can share.”

For a second, so fleeting you barely catch it — like you imagined it — his smile falters. “Right,” he says again after a beat, softer this time, playful tone gone, giving way to something quieter, colder, you think.

The temperature dips in your room, the spark gone, blown out like a candle as you get into bed, mattress sinking beside you when Jay gets in too. You feel every shift of his body, every inch of space keeping you apart. He yawns after a while, the sound breaking through the heavy silence, and relief washes over you when you hear the smile that colours his voice. “Do you cuddle with your friends too?”

Again, your heart stumbles over yourself, the question heating your skin. You swallow, pulse loud in your ears. “I, uh.. I do, actually.” Your voice is smaller than you expect, your throat tight.

Jay doesn’t move though, lying there completely still on his back, the same as you. His breath hitches when you shift, letting your head rest on his chest, the soft cotton of his shirt on your skin, the familiar warmth of his scent tickling your nose. With the way your heart is racing, you don’t trust your voice, so you whisper instead. “Is this okay?”

He hums in response, his arm draping over your waist, fingers brushing against the small sliver of skin exposed by your top. “Is this okay?” he whispers back, his breath warm against the top of your head.

You nod, humming. Jay’s lips spread in an audible smile, his hand squeezing your waist gently and that’s when you feel it—the strike of a match, a candle lit, heat turning over in your stomach as you fall asleep, wrapped up in the comfort of each other.

When you wake up in the morning, with the happy sun beaming through your window, you are alone—nothing left to prove Jay was even here but the smell of him on your sheets and the ring of water on your nightstand where his glass had been.

Yizhuo’s AC is fixed, finally, which the group has, justifiably, deemed cause for celebration. Less justifiable, perhaps, is the fact that you and Minjeong are the ones hosting. Again. Being the guest of honour, Yizhuo is the first to arrive, greeting you and Minjeong with a kiss on the cheek before crouching to untie her shoes by the door.

“I couldn’t get Red Bull,” she grumbles, pushing her hair from her face. “Not for lack of trying.”

Minjeong makes her way to the kitchen, calling out over her shoulder, “What do you mean you couldn’t?”

“I forgot my ID at home!” Yizhuo yells, voice loud in your ear as she stands up, stretching her arms out as she yawns. “I’m giving fifteen-year-old today, I guess.” Looking at her now, with her hair falling out of the bun on top of her head, framing her face, stuck with sweat to her skin, she does look awfully young.

You pinch her cheek. “Sweet, baby Yizhuo,” you coo, endeared by her.

She rolls her eyes though makes no attempt to free herself from your grip. “We’re the same age.”

“And I don’t get ID’d when I buy Red Bull,” you point out, grinning at the lack of amusement on her face. “We might have a can or two in the fridge though.”

Yizhuo brightens up immediately, heading off to the kitchen to join Minjeong. You follow. But you don’t get very far before you hear Aeri’s laughter echoing in the corridor, a firm knock following it—she’s with Jeno and Jaemin, laughing even as she hugs you, not stopping when all six of you are sitting in the living room.

“Surprised we beat Jaehyun here,” Jeno says, looking around as if Jaehyun might pop out from behind a piece of furniture or something. “He’s usually camped out by the door two days before the party.”

Aeri leans into him, still laughing, laughing more. “Referring to an exam as a party is crazy work, Jen.”

This makes Jeno crease his brows, giving her a look, laughing too. “Surely standing outside the exam hall for four hours, on the wrong day, is also, objectively, crazy work.”

You can’t help the laugh that comes through your nose as you lean further back in your seat, and take a sip from your cup. You shake your head, poor Jaehyun. Minjeong’s phone goes off next to you, and she launches off the arm of the couch and to the front door, before Jimin even has a chance to knock. You can hear them in the hall, laughing, chatting, voices just lost to rumbling of Yizhuo’s new speaker against your floor, PinkPantheress’ new single rushing out of it into the room, as the two girls come back, Jaehyun and Donghyuck following close behind.

Together, you share drinks and stories and laughter, so much laughter, an hour passing by quite quickly like this. And yet, they’re missing, still, all four of them—Heeseung, Jake, Sunghoon, and Jay are missing. Their absence, Jay’s mostly, looms in the periphery of your mind, inching towards the forefront, slowly but surely. You take the last sip of your cider, cool and fizzy and delicious, but it does nothing to quiet your thoughts. Even if it weren’t for your liking Jay, you would be lying if you said they haven’t all been a welcome addition to the group — your group — that has held fast through three years of university, staunchly resisting any newcomers until now. And the end of last year when Jimin started dating Minjeong. The boys fit in like they’ve been here all along, a seamless transition, easy. Until now, when their absence is so glaringly obvious, to you, at least.

Jeno, perhaps sensing your unease, comes in from the kitchen, leaning in the doorway with a smile as he asks if the other guys are coming. The question isn’t directed at anyone in particular, but all eyes flick towards you—like you’re Jay’s personal spokesperson. You shrug, you don’t know either. “Maybe they haven’t checked the chat yet,” you offer, shrugging again in an attempt to feign calmness, to make it look like you’re not still trying to work out whether Jay’s lack of response has annoyed you, or made you anxious, or a bit upset.

Everyone nods and moves on, satisfied. Except for Minjeong, who lingers, her brows furrowing when you catch her eye. But she’s distracted a second later by Jimin’s lips on her cheek, and you take that moment to breathe, to relax.

It doesn’t work.

You follow Jeno back into the kitchen, looping your arm through Aeri’s as you reach into the fridge for another drink. She leans in as you open the can, her voice quiet in your ear when she says, “They’re definitely coming.”

She’s smiling when you look at her, playing with your bracelet, but there’s a knock at the front door before you get to quiz her on it, and her lips spread into a grin as she nudges you out of the room. The door opens easily when you try the handle, and there he is.

Jay.

With his friends.

He looks incredible, of course. Better somehow, his good looks amplified by his absence, you think—as they are wont to do. The freckles dotted around his left eye stand out especially, pretty like a constellation. You know from stalking his Instagram that they stick around through all four seasons, unlike the ones dotting the centre of his face, arms, and back sporadically, tiny kisses from the summer sun. He’s in a white vest and loose pants, nothing special though enough to take your breath away, arms buff, as ever, even while he’s just standing there. You shouldn’t be as surprised to see him as you are, you invited him, personally, after all. It’s just that, he didn’t exactly text you back last night when you did, or.. at all, since he left the flat last week. Heat, stupid, traitorous, creeps up the back of your neck, air knocked out of you to make space for something else, something tickly and warm, heart stuttering in your chest and you can’t tell if it’s gearing up to race ahead or stop entirely—for better or for worse, it does the former. His lips are set apart a little, slightly ajar, eyes wide, like he wasn’t expecting you to be the one to answer the door to your own place, like he wasn’t expecting to find you here at all.

It’s Jake who breaks the silence, stepping into the apartment with an extended, hey, and a big hug for you as always, with Heeseung and Sunghoon following suit, bright beams on their faces while Jay stands there, on your doorstep, again, still as a photograph, a moment caught in time, the past.

“It’s okay that we’re here, right?” he finally asks, voice a little tight. “That I’m here?”

You smile but it’s just as stiff as you feel. “I invited you, didn’t I?”

Jay presses his lips into a straight line, observing you for a moment longer before nodding his head and stepping inside. He leaves his shoes by the door and joins everyone else in the living room.

The evening stretches out before you, voices rising and falling, slipping under the music as Yizhuo’s new speaker makes the floorboards vibrate. You’re sitting at the table with Jaehyun and Jake, half-listening to their conversation about.. You’re sitting at the table with Jaehyun and Jake, their conversation lost on you, background noise as far as you’re concerned. Even if you don’t have any of his, Jay has your full attention. He’s on the other side of the room, sitting on the couch next to Yizhuo, his hand wrapped around a bottle of beer and his head tilted back, laughing at something she said. You can hear it over the music, warm and infectious and genuine.

You shift in your seat a little, crossing one leg over the other as you take a long swig from your can. Minjeong joins you, pulling a chair behind yours and resting her chin on your shoulder, arms wrapping around you—you ease up immediately. And right when you’re about to turn away, Jay looks at you. Finally. It’s only now, after its absence, that you realise how much you’ve missed that smile of his, the quirk of his lips, his deep, asymmetrical smile lines, his dimples, and perfect straight teeth. But he just looks, expression neutral and unchanging like he’s looking beyond you, through you, and then—nothing. He’s back to laughing with Yizhuo and Jeno like it’s no big deal, like your relationship, everything you’ve built up this summer, is no big deal.

“Bathroom,” Minjeong whispers in your ear, yanking you out of your chair before you have a chance to protest, and dragging you down the hall where she flicks on the extractor fan and shuts the door with a dull click that seems to mute everything on the other side of it. The bathroom light is harsher than you’ve ever realised, stark and abrasive on your eyes compared to the ambience of the living room and the rest of the flat. You’ll need to swap it with a softer bulb, a warmer one, maybe Jeno can help you change it.

“What happened with you two?”

She’s being gentle, but her voice, the question still stings a little. You blink at her, cheeks flushed, suddenly feeling like a scolded child, and even more so when she brushes your hair behind your ears with her hands, soft, sweet, Minjeong. Unsure how to answer, you shrug, chewing on your lip.

“Did he do something?”

You shake your head, mumbling the word, no, and hating the way her face shifts, a furrow in her brow before she sighs, pulling you in. The sudden pressure of her arms around you is unexpected but welcome. She’s hugging you tightly, the scent of her perfume, clean, light, jasmine, enveloping you, a familiar comfort as she strokes your hair.

“It’s only me,” she mumbles into your shoulder, as if reminding you. “You can tell me if he did something.”

The words melt into you, loosening something in your chest that you didn’t realise had been knotted so tightly. You laugh, dry, humourless, shaking your head. It takes a bit, but you manage to ease your way out of her hold, eyeing her for a moment, catching the concern written all over her face.

“He didn’t,” you say after a while. “It was my fault, I don’t know why I let him spend the night.”

Minjeong’s head snaps up, eyes wide, nearly bugging out of her head. “Why you let him what?” The words escape her in a burst, loud enough to make you flinch. She clamps her hand over her mouth, and you can’t help but laugh.

“He went to Seunghan’s last week, but left to come over here,” you explain vaguely, scratching at your thigh. “It was late, and he didn’t have a way home, so I told him he could sleep over.”

Her hand is still over her mouth, but you can see her brain whirring, processing this new piece of information. When she finally lowers her hand, her face is a storm of emotions—shock, disbelief, maybe even a little irritation. “Why am I only hearing about this now?”

You don’t have a real answer, and Minjeong knows that. She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, the way she always does when she’s trying to keep her frustration in check. “So what happened?” she asks, and her voice is softer now, but more intense—like she’s ready to solve this mystery whether you like it or not. “How was he acting? What did he say? What did you say?”

Playing with the hem of your shorts, you hesitate before finally giving in. The story spills out of you like water from a faucet, the night replaying in your mind as you speak, a smile on your lips as you get wrapped up in details like the little pout on his lips when you left to go get water, and how his calloused fingers felt on your skin. Minjeong squeals and grins at all the right parts, a dreamy look in her eyes until you reach the end, when she snaps out of her trance and looks at you like you’re stupid.

“Are you, like, chronically stupid or something?”

Oh, you think, frowning.

“Use your brain!” she yells, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Why on earth would you choose that moment to lament on friendship? Jay was in your bed — your dream guy, in your bed — and you called him your friend?”

“Newsflash, MJ, he is my friend!” you say defensively, cheeks burning as you do your best to ignore the ache in your chest at having to call him that. “And I didn’t even really call him my friend. I meant it in a ‘I’ve shared the bed with Jeno and Jaem a million times and they’re just my friends, of course I’d share the bed with you’ sort of way.”

Minjeong takes a step back, her face twisting in horror. “You brought up Jaemin?”

“No! Jesus, I’m not that stupid.”

Her brow raises, unconvinced. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Hey!” you shout, smacking her on the arm. She smacks you right back, and the sting of it snaps you out of your self-pity for a moment, as you mumble, “Ouch.” A small smile creeps over your lips as you rub your arm, and Minjeong catches it, her eyes softening.

“You two need to talk,” she says firmly, her voice quieter now. She gives you a look — a mixture of exasperation and affection — right when someone knocks on the door. Minjeong looks over her shoulder at it before gripping the handle. One last look at you, stern this time. “If you don’t talk to him soon, YN, I swear, I’ll do it for you.”

Jay texts you back as soon as you hit send, like he’d been waiting for another chance to turn you down — Yoooo that’d be so fire.. I’m out w Hoon tn but another time for sure, YN! — and it’s the seventh time he’s turned you down via text message in two weeks.

You’ve never known him to be so popular. If it’s not Sunghoon, it’s Heeseung, or it’s Jake—or some combination of those three. If not them, it’s the guys from his Law cohort, and if not them, he’s with Jaemin, of all people. You, it seems, aren’t even worth a single night. His bro-speak comes in several painful degrees, with Monday’s message being the most violent offence. A text composed of eighty-two characters—a whopping four of them used to call you dude. Each word, a carefully crafted brick in the wall between you and the Jay you thought you knew. The Jay who drove one of the first years thirty miles home after football training because he forgot his wallet on the bus. The Jay you’ve spent the whole summer falling for.

Being left on read would be less insulting.

In your clenched fist, your phone — rigid, metal — starts hurting your fingers, a red imprint on your palm when you put it on your lap. As you inspect the indents in your skin, a lightbulb turns on in your head, glowing with an idea that’s either genius or unhinged. Spurred on by irritation, your fingers hover over the keys, thumb pressing send before you have a chance to change your mind.

You: Hey Hoon, are you with Jay?

There’s a moment — a brief, anxiety-induced moment — where you consider deleting the message. But your phone goes off with a jarring ding, the screen lighting up to show you Sunghoon’s reply.

Nah, Jay was too busy being a loser in his room to come out tn 👎

The revelation, the truth, turns your stomach, but you can’t help but laugh at Sunghoon’s next message, a belated attempt at loyalty for his best friend.

Unless he said he’s w me, then yeah he’s at the bar rn getting drinks.

Without a second thought, you stand up from the couch, tugging your shoes on with one hand and grabbing your keys with the other before storming out. The bus is late, of course, but you’re not sure how much that matters. You sit in the hot silence of the night, anger filling the space where music normally is. Off the bus, down the winding path, and through the door to Jay’s building that a kind elderly woman holds open for you. The elevator trudges up the shaft, every jolt a reminder of why you’re here—because he’s avoiding you, and doesn’t have the decency to tell you the truth, or at least coordinate stories with his friend. When you finally knock on Jay’s door, it’s like pushing the last domino in a row.

This door swings open, and Jay’s standing in front of you, bags under his wide eyes, surprise, and maybe guilt coating your name when he says it. He sounds confused, voice soft—a far cry from the nonchalant texts he’s been sending you. Unfortunately, the sight of him blinking sleepily at you crumbles your resolve instantly—all irritation slipping away into nothing but pure concern. “Come,” you say quietly. “Let’s go eat.”

As if in a daze, Jay only nods, taking the key out of the door and stepping out in his sliders.

Silence follows the two of you out of his building and all the way down the street, interrupted only by the scuffing of his shoes against the pavement. Around you, the stuffy evening air swallows up any words that might have been spoken. Then the smell of food hits, tteokbokki you think, wafting from the open door of a restaurant you’ve never been to, sharp and spicy, tempting under your nose, enough to make you stop in your tracks. Jay stops too, following you inside.

You find a table near the window, bright sunlight shining in through the glass, warming your skin. Behind you, Jay lingers, hanging back as if he’s waiting for your permission to sit, to relax—he doesn’t though, shoulders stiff as he sits in the seat across from you. Before you know it, he’s up from his chair, already at the drinks fridge in the corner, scanning the shelves like he has a goal in mind. There’s no time to tell him what you want to drink because when you think of it, he’s already pulling the can from the shelf, lip caught between his teeth as he browses for himself. The waitress comes while he’s away, a too-bright smile plastered on her face as you order ramen for both of you and tteokbokki to share. When Jay sits back down, it’s with your drink in hand, cracking it open without a word and setting it down in front of you. You mumble your thanks but don’t take a sip, hands in your lap playing with the hem of your shorts. He doesn’t reply, staring at his own hands on the table, fingers tapping once, twice, before his gaze lifts to meet yours, lips parting to speak.

You don’t give him a chance, cutting in. “We can talk later, Jay. Let’s just eat for now.” The words slip out, your voice quieter than you expected.

He tilts his head, the softness in his eyes catching you off guard. He says your name with a weight in his voice that makes you pause, uttering a quiet, what? in response.

“I’m sorry I lied to you tonight.”

It’s the way he says it — plain, simple, not dressed up to hide anything — that makes your chest tighten. You shake your head like he’s being silly, though you appreciate the apology nonetheless. “It’s okay,” you tell him, meaning it. He seems to know you’re being sincere.

Your food is piping hot when it reaches the table, steam heating your cheeks. Jay doesn’t seem to mind though, digging in immediately, not even stopping to blow on his ramen before eating it. His hands are quick, chopsticks moving from bowl to mouth in a blur as he nods appreciatively. You don’t even realise you’re staring until his eyes flick up to yours, straightening up a little and dabbing at his broth-red lips with a napkin.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, clearing his throat.

Without words, you stab at a cheese-covered rice cake and enjoy the tangy spice on your tongue. The sound of slurping ramen fills the air between you, but it’s not awkward, not really. Just.. quiet. And you don’t bother asking if he’s eaten yet because you can tell he hasn’t, because you know he’ll shrug it off. So instead, you start eating too, trying to match his rhythm but never quite catching up.

When your bowls are cleared and your stomachs are full, both of you rise from your seats at the same time. Jay steps towards the till first, hand already halfway into his pocket, but you stop him, hand wrapping around his wrist like a reflex.

“I’m paying,” you say firmly, reaching for your phone.

“YN—” He starts, but you cut him off with a shake of your head, not wanting the back and forth that always comes with dining out.

“Don’t argue with me, Jay.” Your voice is soft but edged with a finality that makes him stop.

This is normally the part of the night where he’d insist, eyes twinkling with challenge—but there is nothing normal about tonight. He nods, a tired smile flickering across his lips for a beat before it fades. At the till, the worker taps the total into the machine and you pay in one smooth motion, not letting Jay get close enough to protest in case he changes his mind. He watches, not saying anything as he slips his hands into his pockets, waiting for you like always. Once more, silence follows you out, walking between you like a third person joining you on the way back to his place. The air is cooler now, a breeze biting in place of the now-set sun, enough to make you wrap your arms around yourself as you walk.

“I’ll drive you home,” he says quietly, right when his building comes into view.

For a second, you consider arguing, telling him you’ll take the bus, but you know it’s pointless. He is — for the first time in two weeks — being the Jay you’ve always known, albeit saying much less, who looks out for you even when you don’t ask him to.

“Okay,” you mumble.

The silence doesn’t stop when you get into the car either, sitting like a passenger amongst you both, stifled only by the engine’s low hum that occupies the empty spaces you two typically fill up with conversation. Jay glances over at you every so often, his gaze clear in your peripheral as you look straight out the windscreen at the street. The quiet remains even when he pulls up to your flat. You unbuckle your seatbelt, not looking at him when you thank him or even when you hear his door opening. Again, he trails behind you. Jay’s demeanour, his quietness and distance, put a guilty pit in your stomach—you’d wanted to yell at him, chew him out when you left this evening, but now, in the silence of the elevator, all you want to do is give him a hug and stroke his back, let him cry into your shoulder—God knows it looks like he needs it.

As you near your door, you’re not sure what to say, even as you’re turning your key in the lock and stepping inside, words escape you. Jay’s still standing on the doormat, looking down at his feet when you turn around. You stand in the open doorway, hand gripping the frame like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the moment. He’s close enough to touch but somehow miles away on his side of the door—just outside, hands in his pockets, not crossing the threshold. Not quite in your world yet.

“Do you want to come in?” you ask, for lack of anything better to say, straightening up and pointing over your shoulder as if he wouldn’t know what you meant.

Jay shakes his head, and his voice is too loud and too quiet all at once. “I should get going. Thanks, though, for tonight.”

A sigh claws its way out from your chest, heavy exasperation coming out in the sound. “Why are you mad at me?” you demand, petulant like a child about to stomp her feet.

“Mad at you?” he repeats as if you’ve brought up a novel concept, confusion running along his knitted brows. “I’m not mad at you, YN.”

“Then..” You trail off—you’d been so sure of it, so fixated on the existence of his annoyance that you can’t help but be surprised by his denial of it and how quickly you believe him. “Well, then.. Why are you avoiding me?”

His lips twitch, parting to speak, but you cut him off, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “And don’t say you’re not avoiding me, because I know you are.”

It’s Jay’s turn to sigh, heavily, like the weight of his own words is too much for him to bear. His hand wraps around your pointing finger, his touch sending a jolt through you as he lowers it.

“I wasn’t going to say that, I don’t want to lie to you,” he says softly, gaze struggling to meet yours before falling to the floor. “It wasn’t going to be forever, I just needed to figure some shit out.”

Again, you’re taken aback by his words—you hadn’t been expecting him to confirm that he’d been avoiding you either. At least not so quickly. “Figure what out?”

Jay shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and you only realise that he’d been holding onto your finger this whole time when he lets go of it, hands finding their way back into his pockets. More hesitation follows. A pit forms in your stomach as the silence stretches. “We have a good thing going, a solid friendship. I didn’t want to ruin it,” he says finally.

Friendship.

If it weren’t for the tightness in your throat or the way the door frame seems to be shrinking around you, you might have had it in you to laugh at how much the truth is hurting your feelings. You are friends with Jay, you’ve only ever been friends with Jay. So, why your chest is starting to hurt over this is beyond you. “Ruin it?” you ask finally, voice a mere whisper.

Jay’s eyes flick back up to meet yours, something behind them so warm it quiets your thoughts and twists your heart all at once. “It wouldn’t be fair if I kept making moves on a girl who’s clearly not interested. I mean, it might take me a while, but I can take a hint, you know?” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh, his voice softer when he continues. “I didn’t want to ruin things between us because I caught feelings and you didn’t.”

His words, his confession, hang in the air between you, looming like a cloud that doesn’t quite know where to settle. Off-kilter. Everything is off-kilter—the corridor of your apartment building warps and skews as if you’re on the other side of a portal to an alternate dimension. Only he remains static, steady. Jay is steady.

“You caught feelings for me?” you ask. “You like me?” Your voice doesn’t even sound like you—muffled, distant, like it belongs to someone else. The question floats between you, and you half-expect him to take it back, but instead, he nods.

His lips tug into that same lopsided smile you’ve come to love so much—sheepish yet unashamed. “Of course, I like you. Couldn’t you tell?” He’s never sounded so gentle, helping you put together a puzzle you should have solved already. “I’ve been begging your friends all summer to let me crash your hangouts, getting into pools I had no business getting into—fuck, I even took advice from Jaemin, of all people.”

You blink at him, stunned by what you’re hearing, his words echoing in your mind as you try to make sense of what he’s saying, to work out where everything went wrong. Suddenly, the last seven weeks of your life hit you in a starkly different light—the fact he kept appearing but never seemed surprised to see you, how he never seemed to mind watching whatever movie you mentioned, reading the books you’ve read, how he’d always look at you with the world’s affection in his eyes. He couldn’t have been less subtle if he’d been wearing a shirt that said I have feelings for you, YN!—honestly, you think he may as well have been wearing one. How didn’t you see it? It seems so obvious now that you know.

“You asked Jaemin for advice?” It’s not the follow-up question you’d been hoping to ask, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious about it.

Jay nods, laughing, and you can’t help but laugh too, more from disbelief than anything else. He runs a hand through his hair, so effortless yet still somehow looking like he’s stepped off the cover of a magazine. “Yeah, I know. Desperate times, and all that.”

Finally, the question you meant to ask makes its way out, but your voice is smaller than you expect it to be. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

His smile falters, eyes locked on yours as he chews his lip. “Because I didn’t want to hear you say no.”

“Jay,” you whisper, shaking your head. “How could I ever say no to you?”

He takes a step back, more maddening distance between you—you don’t know why he won’t cross the line, why he won’t come in. “Are you saying you like me?” he asks, voice so soft you barely hear him.

“I am.” You nod, heart pounding, pulse loud in your ears. “I like you a lot.”

At this, his jaw drops—the only movement he makes for a beat. His expression quickly softens, the uncertainty in his eyes giving way to warmth. A sheepish smile quirks at his lips. “You mean it?”

You nod, grinning at him, giggling when he repeats it to himself, you like me, his relief showing itself through a soft sigh, and he beams at you when you question him. “You really didn’t know?”

“I knew, like, basically the whole time, sort of,” he admits, scratching at the back of his neck. “It was only when you called me your friend that night in your room that I thought I should, like.. kill myself or something.”

Just the mention of that night is enough to make you cringe, hands coming up to cover your face as you laugh at your own obliviousness. It’s not until you hear the ding of the elevator arriving at your floor that you remember you and Jay aren’t the only two left in the world, that you’ve been standing in your doorway this whole time. As the doors whoosh open, you look up at him, and he’s looking at you with that same soft gaze you recognise but can’t name—the one that says he’s right here and he’s been here all along.

Half-grinning, half-wondering if any of this is real, you lean against the doorframe, eyes stuck on his. “Do you want to come inside?” you ask for the second time.

Jay glances at his watch, his eyes widening when he sees the time. “I really do need to get going,” he says, hesitation in his voice like he doesn’t want to leave yet, like he’s not ready to—you’re not either, the thought of another night without him, knowing what you know now, pulls your lips into a frown. His eyes follow the movement, stuck on your mouth for a beat before he frowns too, as if he’s already regretting the words.

“I know, baby,” he coos, the word slipping out naturally like it’s been on the tip of his tongue this whole time. Then his eyes widen again, panic flashing across his face. “Wait, sorry—can I call you that? Is that okay?”

“Baby,” you repeat, letting the word unravel in your mouth, savouring its sweetness like candy on your tongue. It echoes in your brain, itching it the right way as you nod, unsure how better to express yourself. “That’s good, I like it,” you add eventually, smiling to yourself as if the pet name was one he’d made up on the spot with you in mind.

The grin on your face feels too wide, stretched from ear to ear and aching just a bit. You can’t help it though, it’s like you’ve forgotten how to hold your face in any other way. Jay’s wearing one to match as he pulls you into his chest, his arms solid and warm around you, hands big on your waist, letting you melt into him. His shirt is soft against your cheek, his scent clinging to it—warm and sweet and good. He’s still beaming when you look up at him.

“Goodnight, Jay,” you whisper, reflexively, not because you want him to go.

“Goodnight, baby,” he whispers back, and his voice is so soft, so fond, your heart flutters like it’s grown wings.

It doesn’t help that hearing that word from him is driving you crazy, making you dizzy—like it’s a key to a door you didn’t realise was locked. All this time, you’ve been holding your breath, suffering quietly under the weight of your feelings for him. Being here now with him, like this, you feel like you can finally breathe—like you’re safe here, with Jay.

You want to kiss him, need to. Not so much a thought as it is a pull, a magnetic force tugging your gaze to his lips and you can’t look away, wondering what they’d feel like, willing him to be the one to let you find out.

“I really want to kiss you,” he says suddenly, following the script in your head perfectly, lips so close to yours that the words spill out onto your skin, so close it’s like you’re the one who said it. “Can I do that? Please?”

There’s something — to you — so surreal, so dreamlike about this situation that you’re overwhelmed by your distance from the realm of things you thought possible even thirty minutes ago. In your chest, your heart trips over itself, your body betraying you with its need. You nod belatedly, not trusting yourself to speak. Before you can even take a breath, his lips touch yours, soft, tentative at first, each brush of his lips against yours sweeter than the last, tender in a way you wish you could bottle up and keep forever. But then, something shifts, his grip on your waist tightening, the kiss deepening, his tongue on yours, and suddenly everything clicks into place—a kiss that feels more like an unravelling than a beginning. Your stomach is doing flips, and Jay is laughing into the kiss — joy incarnate — happy breaths passed from him to you, making you giggle as well. Of course, Jay would kiss you like this, all giddy and earnest.

When he pulls away, he lets his forehead rest against yours and pecks your lips—seeming relieved like this is exactly where he’s supposed to be. You’re breathless, but you don’t let him get too far, chasing after his kisses, even when he smiles. With his lips on yours, Jay’s having second thoughts, mumbling, “I guess I could stay for a little while.” The words slip from his mouth straight into yours as he steps inside.

Finally.

You only separate out of necessity to lock the door behind you, kicking your shoes off while you’re at it, but he’s still there — hands glued to your waist like it’s where they’re meant to be, where they belong — waiting for your attention again. You aim for the hook, but the keys miss it, hitting the floor with a soft clatter, forgotten about. They aren’t important to you, not now. And neither is the way you’re tripping over your feet trying to lead him through your apartment—how could it be when his face is in your hands, when his lips are on yours and you don’t want to part again even for a second?

The same can’t be said for Jay who doesn’t miss a beat, grip tightening on your waist, lifting you before your feet even register leaving the ground, and you wrap your legs around him without a second thought. He feels his way through the hall, free hand thudding against the walls and the edges of things, the sound making you laugh into the kiss—drunk on the moment, on him, until the bed catches him with you in his lap.

You can feel him underneath you, hard, throbbing, through his sweatpants, you can’t resist grinding down on him, a sigh passing from your mouth into his. You want so desperately to sleep with him. His fingers dig into your hips—a low groan when you rut against him again. It’s a personal offence when he pulls away to catch his breath, but when you open your eyes and see the state of him, you quickly forget why. Kiss-plump lips all red and glossy with saliva, head tipped back, brown eyes blinking heavily, dark with lust.

The accumulation of weeks passed, quietly longing, wanting this exact thing, manifests itself in burning impatience. Unbridled want clenching around your stomach, urging your hips back and forth before you can think twice about it. His face, gorgeous as ever, twists with pleasure. A scrunch along the straight bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut, lips parting, a breathy grunt punched out of him as his hips buck up against you. Now that you’ve seen that face, been the reason for that face, you can’t get enough. Your hand slips under his shirt, his stomach firm under your palm, trembling as a shudder racks through him. The hair under his belly button soft under your fingers, leading you all the way to his waistband. His lidded eyes are stuck on your hands, lips wet, tempting. You tell him you want to touch him, asking if you can. He nods slowly, moving his lips to mumble the word, please. Your hand disappears under his sweats, his underwear, and he pulls air through his teeth, quickly expelling it in a jagged sigh. He is hot and thick in your palm, so.. big, it doesn’t even feel real, him or the moment—to hold him like this, have him under you like this, sharp breaths tugged out of him as you stroke him, slow, experimental almost. His tip is slick with precum, your thumb slipping over it, over his slit right as he grabs your wrist to stop you.

Nervous, not wanting to go too far, you ask, “You don’t want it?”

Jay lifts his head, looking at you like you’re crazy, his eyes wide, brows raised. “Of course, I want it,” he says after a beat, slow like he’s trying to convince himself, or trying to convince you, though he tightens his grip when you move your thumb again, a groan coming out of him. “Just..” He trails off, heavy breaths pulling his chest in and out against yours. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

You hum in response, nodding your head.

“I told you I’d look after you, right? Told you I’d focus on you..” Jay leans in when you nod, his lips finding the base of your neck. One kiss. Another. A beat. A whisper, breath fanning your ear. “You trust me to do that? Going to be good and let me do that?”

There’s not enough time to process how that makes you feel. Fire in your stomach. Ache in your core. Throbbing heat between your thighs. You nod. He smiles. Turns you over, your back to the mattress, head on your plushies as he watches, eyes dark and all over you. His hand finds your waist, lips finding yours. Slow. Soft. His fingers reach your waistband, stroking the skin there, touch so light you can barely feel it. He asks if this is okay. You nod, it’s more than okay, and you nod again when he asks if he can take your shorts off.

You miss him as soon as he leaves your side, moving towards the end of the bed. “Up, baby,” he mumbles, and yet again, you nod like you’re in a trance — maybe you are — as you lift your hips off the bed.

Jay takes his time easing your shorts down your legs, unhurried, relaxed, like he has all the time in the world—you hope he does. His eyes don’t leave the spot between your legs, stuck on your underwear. He doesn’t even look away when he folds up your shorts, leaving them neatly on the end of the bed. Your legs part for him unthinkingly, and he grins, an amused breath coming from his nose. He leans forward, so close you can feel his breath through the thin fabric of your underwear, the only real barrier between you and his mouth. His lips press a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, a breath slips out of you, one you didn’t know you were holding.

His tongue darts over his lips, wetting them, fingers coming up to touch the red lace. “I like these,” he says, running his thumb along the hem.

“You caught me on a good day,” you say, breathless. “Don’t get used to it.”

He shakes his head, looking up at you — an unbelievably tender softness in his eyes — before straightening up and crawling back up the bed towards you. “You didn’t let me finish,” he mumbles, lips on your cheek, hand on your waist. “Yeah, I like them, but I like the girl wearing them way more.”

Overwhelming heat floods your cheeks, and Jay smiles into your skin. He tips your chin up towards his face, lips catching yours in a slow kiss, charged with lust and all of the things you can’t get yourselves to say, His tongue sweeps yours, hungry, carnal, enough to distract you from the movement of his hand slipping between your thighs and pushing your underwear aside. Relief washes over you and he hasn’t even done anything yet. A beat passes and Jay’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it in maddening circles, drawing a breath out of you. Both of you sigh, relieved, when his finger slips into you, your walls clenching around him, pulling him in.

You whisper his name, clutching his forearm, and an audible smile spreads over his lips, eyes finding yours as he says, “Yeah, baby?”

Another finger, pushing in as easy as the first, pries a moan out of you. You can’t help but give in to him so easily, and if he wasn’t looking at you the way he is, you might feel a little embarrassed about it. But there he is, your Jay, straight teeth digging into his plush bottom lip, staring down at you like you’re the only thing that matters. His attention unwavering, completely yours, desire written all over his face and all because of you—just the thought is enough to make you shiver under his touch.

An exhale, jagged, torn out when his thumb meets your clit again, circling it, slow but not teasing. Gentle. Intentional. His touch is so light it feels imagined, fingertips just grazing the spot you need him the most.

“Good, baby? You like that?” he asks when you moan.

You can’t respond, can’t say anything but his name as he eases a third finger into you, a sweet stretch that makes you curse. His thick fingers pump in and out of you, a lewd sound filling the room as his thumb slips over your clit, movement sloppier than before but better, much better. It’s only now that you notice the knot in your stomach, the flame burning away at you from the inside out. White-hot. Blinding. He keeps a steady pace, fingers curling in a rhythm that makes your back arch and thighs clamp around his wrist.

A cry. A desperate whine. An obscene moan when you come, making a mess of yourself and his hand. Heat scalds you from all angles, coating your skin. Jay kisses the shell of your ear, cooing and praising you under his breath as you shake against him. As sweet as he’s being, he doesn’t give you any time to catch your breath, to process—he doesn’t stop. Not when your toes curl against the duvet, or your hips buck up against his palm, not when your nails sink into his forearm. His thumb stays on your clit, fingers still filling you to the knuckle, drawing out your high for as long as he can until you come again—another shuddering orgasm hitting you quicker than the last.

“My pretty girl,” Jay whispers, cradling you in his arms, and kissing the top of your head. “I’ve got you, baby, I’m here.”

You let yourself sink into his hold, catching your breath, liking the steady beat of his heart against your back. His scent and the warmth of his body — his presence — wrap around you like a promise, grounding, safe. Your eyes flutter shut, a soft, happy sigh slipping out of you, liking the way your heart races when he’s around.

Later, you brush your teeth in the bathroom while Jay waits on your bed. The bristles of your toothbrush are soft, but the pressure in your chest is hard, stubborn. Giggles erupt out of you, muffled by toothpaste foam, and you can’t stop looking at your reflection, obsessed with how different you look—a completely flustered being staring back at you, glowing so bright it hurts your eyes.

When you get back to your room, you find him with your Hello Kitty plushie in hand, freezing mid-movement like a caught criminal. His eyes meet yours after a moment, a small, guilty smile twitching at his lips as he lowers the plushie towards your desk, where the rest of your collection now sits in a soft, colourful row. You freeze for a moment, watching him, warmth tugging at the corners of your heart. You’d never thought much of it before, thinking of all the guys who’d shoved them aside—pushing them onto the floor like they were an afterthought. You never saw it as rude, just guys being guys, a little careless, a little indifferent. But seeing Jay now — his soft, deliberate way — placing each one with care like it’s something important, pulls at your heart.

“Jay,” you say, a light chuckle following. “You didn’t have to do that,” you tell him, touched like he’s put in some grand effort to move all seven of your stuffed toys from the bed to your desk.

He catches your eye, chuckling too, a sheepish grin when he says, “You know I wouldn’t just put them on the floor, right?” His voice is low, amusement clear in his tone as if he’s letting you in on some unspoken tenet of human decency. “I’m not a supervillain, YN.” The way he says it, with the slightest hesitation, the faintest shadow of nerves darting across his features makes something inside you soften. He scratches at the back of his neck, an unintentional gesture, his rare awkwardness threading between the space of your laughter. “Besides, you were going to do it anyway..” His voice trails off, suddenly seeming unsure. You pull him into a hug, his body relaxing into your touch as you lean up to kiss him and mumble your thanks against his lips. Jay smiles, the two of you still connected at the mouth. “It’s okay, baby,” he says. “It’s no big deal.”

Deep down, a part of you knows he’s right. It’s not a big deal at all. But it feels like one for you.

You’re way more tired than you’d realised, so getting into bed is like a reward. The sheets are soft against your skin, still warm from where you’d been lying down earlier, and you sink into the mattress as the entire world shrinks to the size of your room, your bed. To the size of your boy, back from the bathroom, climbing in next to you, pressing a kiss to your cheek, his chest to your back. A short moment passes quietly, listening to the sounds of outside — distant cars, the faint rustle of trees — and Jay’s breath on the nape of your neck, soft, steady.

“You really didn’t have to move my plushies,” you whisper, shifting to look at him even though it’s dark in your room.

“I know,” he whispers back, soft and sleepy. “But you liked it.”

The sound of your lips spreading into a smile breaks the silence that follows, and you press your eyes shut as his fingers rub little circles on your hip, his skin warm on yours in the space between the hem of your vest and the waistband of your shorts, a rhythm soothing enough to lull you to sleep. Jay says, of course, when you thank him belatedly, your heavy eyelids drooping as the heat from his body seeps into your skin, and then, as you’re drifting off, you feel it—the softest press of his lips against the top of your head.

There’s no way to know how much time has passed when you blink your eyes open, and you’re not sure what woke you in the first place, but your room is cast in dim orange from the slowly rising sun outside.

Sticky warmth wraps you up like a hug, near unbearable heat radiating from everywhere—your own body, Jay’s, the thick air pressing down on you. Too hot for cuddles if you’re honest, chances of overheating at an all-time high—your cheek stuck by sweat to his bare chest, his heart thudding dully against your ear. Even with the duvet bunched up at your feet, sweat forms relentlessly over your skin.

You shift, slightly, careful not to wake him as you tilt your head back to look at him. Under your palm, you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes—and God, even in the syrupy heat of summer, he’s beautiful. Straight lashes, impossibly long, casting shadows over the swell of his cheeks. Neck glistening with sweat. Plump lips sitting in a subtle curve. Your heart beats faster just watching him, so hard and loud in your chest you wonder if he can hear it. His face scrunches, brow furrowing as if he can sense your eyes on him. You can’t look away, even though you should. His eyes flutter open, a slow, tired blink as his gaze lands on you, completely unguarded. Belatedly, you screw your eyes shut, faking sleep. He chuckles, soft and drowsy, but entertains you all the same, not saying anything until you open your eyes with an outstretched arm.

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmurs groggily, voice deeper, thick with sleep as his lips graze your forehead on their way to your mouth in a sweet kiss. His hand rests on your shoulder, giving you a gentle squeeze.

There go those butterflies again, feral. You smile against his lips. “Hi, baby.”

Jay yawns, a long, lazy stretch of breath that he turns away from you as if the air between you is too fragile to interrupt. But then he’s back — thankfully — mouth brushing yours, soft like he’s shy about it, unthinkably tender. “So sleepy,” he mumbles.

His arm moves out from under you in an awkward, languid movement as he leans up on his elbow, body rolling towards you—the position is identical to hours before, and the realisation coats your cheeks with blazing heat. Jay doesn’t seem so affected. He’s looking down at you, eyes flickering over your whole face like he’s studying you, his fingers on your shoulder — gaze following closely — tracing the untanned skin where your bikini tops have been sitting, evidence of a summer spent outside. Your skin burns under his touch, his eyes darting up to meet yours. The strap of your vest slips down, and Jay pulls it back up with his pinky, ducking his head down to kiss you slowly, tender as ever. His lips find yours in a slow, deliberate press, a kiss that has more layers than it should. Pure affection laced with something deeper, not quite out of reach but just under the surface.

For the second time, you wake up alone after spending the night with Jay.

The sheets are still warm, a whisper of him still lingering there, clinging to your skin. The silence is pervasive, pressing on your chest like a weight. But it’s okay, everything is okay. You tell yourself everything is okay, not to freak out. That Jay wouldn’t just leave. Not again. Not after last night and the softness of his voice when he said, of course, I like you. Couldn’t you tell?

But then you hear it—nothing. No flushing toilet, no footsteps, not the sound of the shower starting up. Just the hollow quiet of the flat swallowing you whole. A sigh slips from your lips. This is okay. You are okay. Yeah, you’re good. Another sigh. You blink, once, twice. Nothing changes. At the end of the bed, your shorts are folded neatly, exactly as Jay left them, quiet, mocking somehow. You shake your head, you’re okay. He told you he liked you and you believed him, let him touch you.. There’s a pit in your stomach, but if you focus on the pounding of your heart in the back of your throat you can almost ignore it. You hide your face in the pillow, embarrassed, mortified. He’s left before, without warning or explanation, so maybe this is just who he is. Maybe you’re the problem after all, something bad always happens when you want more—you can’t believe you let Minjeong get in your head.

Then, the door opens, its soft creak jarring in the quiet.

“Baby?” Jay’s voice is gentle, almost concerned.

For a moment, you can’t bring yourself to look up. It’s all too much—the relief, the embarrassment. He didn’t leave. Of course, he didn’t. Your mind is stupid and cruel, betraying you like that. Slowly — cheeks hot, heart pounding — you peek over the edge of the pillow, the sweet scent of syrup hitting your nose. The sight of Jay lifts the weight in your chest, lets you breathe, truly breathe, finally, for the first time since waking up. His hair is ruffled, flat on his forehead. Still shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips. Something from a dream. Pancakes in one hand, a glass of water in the other. As if afraid you might disappear if he moves too quickly, he approaches with some hesitation.

“What’s the matter?” His voice is gentle, enough to make your heart settle into a normal rhythm.

You choke on a small laugh, more out of self-deprecation than amusement. “I thought you left,” you admit, feeling ridiculous as you do—voice tiny to your own ears, small, childlike.

Jay frowns, setting the plate on the nightstand. He sits beside you, hand hovering over your back like he’s afraid to touch you. When he finally does, he’s gentle, careful, grounding. “I just went to make breakfast,” he says quietly, thumb tracing soothing circles against your skin. “Why would I leave?”

“After last time..” You trail off, unsure how to put it.

A beat passes before he says your name, voice much quieter now. “I felt kind of stupid that night, thinking you felt the same as I did, that you just needed time or didn’t want to rush into anything, and then you called me your friend, and I just.. I don’t know. I shouldn’t have left, not like that.”

Taken aback by his openness, all you can do is blink. Words escape you, knowing you should say something, anything, but nothing comes. Jay watches you, eyes scanning your face, stopping on your forehead, staring, like he’s trying to see what’s in there. We’ve been so stupid, you think, almost wanting to laugh.

He breaks the silence, apologising. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, meaning it.

Jay shakes his head. “It’s not,” he says, voice firm but gentle, pulling you into his chest, his skin warm on your cheek as his chin rests on top of your head, fingers brushing your hair. “I fucked up—didn’t even realise how much that must’ve hurt you until now. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere, baby. Not now, not ever.” His words buzz against your scalp, sinking in fully as he says them, holding you like he’s trying to make sure you understand.

The two of you stay like that for a while, your arms around his waist, enjoying the warmth of his skin on yours. Until your stomach growls, loud, insistent.

He laughs, low and soft, while you try to fight the flush on your cheeks and neck. Pulling back just a little, Jay grabs the plate, holding it out for you to take. And he lets go completely when you do, grabbing cutlery and an orange you hadn’t noticed. “Eat up, baby,” he says.

You try to offer him a bite, but he shakes his head, still grinning. “I made them for you,” he insists, guiding the fork to your mouth instead, feeding you. You let him.

The pancake is perfect, soft and sweet, drenched in just the right amount of syrup. “So good,” you mumble around it, sweetness lingering on your tongue. Suddenly, you’re relieved that Jay doesn’t want to share with you.

“Let’s at least share that,” you say after a beat, feeling nervous under his gaze, gesturing towards the orange sitting in his lap.

Jay nods, picking it up. The peel, vibrant, porous, splits under his fingernail, coming away easily in his palm. You watch as he splits the fruit in half, pulling the segments apart one at a time before holding one out to you, a soft smile on his lips as he does, watching you, waiting. Before you can take it from him, he lifts it to your mouth, eyes on yours, a slow nod like he’s giving you permission.

You eat the fruit from his fingers, ignoring the stir in your stomach. His touch lingers a second longer than expected, a shiver running down your spine, heat scalding the surface of your skin. He lets his thumb graze your lip, and you can’t help but hold your breath for a beat, heart thudding louder in your chest. You think about the orange as you chew, trying not to focus on the look in Jay’s lidded eyes as he watches you. The way he licks his lips. It’s good—the orange. As vibrant and juicy as you expected, a little sour in the way you think the best oranges always are.

“Quit looking at me like that,” you tell him, even though you like it.

A laugh comes out of him, genuinely amused as he shakes his head. “No way, I’m allowed to now,” he says, grinning like he can’t believe it. “And you’re just so pretty, why wouldn’t I?”

“You’ve always been allowed to,” you point out, ignoring the last part of what he said, and the subsequent butterflies going wild in your stomach as a result of it.

Jay’s eyes soften, smile unchanging as he leans back on his elbows, finishing off his half of the orange. There’s something about the moment’s almost suffocating intimacy that makes you feel rather vulnerable, transparent—smudged glass he can see through anyway. It’s easier to look at the food than to meet his gaze, syrup pooling at the pancake’s edge like a moat, split orange segments, bright wedges on white ceramic.

In the kitchen, Jay hums to himself while washing the dishes. The sound of water against ceramic fills the space, dishes being placed carefully in the drying rack but clinking against the metal all the same. You should ask him. You need to, need the security of a label. But you don’t. Instead, you lean against the counter behind him and watch—his back, his arms, the rhythm of his movement, how his muscles shift under his skin. It’s hypnotic. Quiet. Domestic.

He turns when he’s done, drying his hands with a dish towel. “Hey, gorgeous,” he says when he sees you. That smile again, so easy, so handsome. “What’s on your mind?”

You hesitate before wrapping your arms around him, pulling him in, pressing your face into his chest and inhaling the warmth of his skin. His arms loop over your shoulder, holding you close. You tip your chin towards him, lips catching his in a kiss. Slow and gentle, enough to quiet your worries. He’s not going anywhere. He wants this. Wants you. He means it and you can tell.

And then, almost without thinking, you say it. “You’re like.. my little boyfriend, right?”

Jay pulls back slightly, blinking, a cough as his grip on your waist loosens up. “I mean, yeah,” he says after a while, nodding. “Yeah, I am. I want to be.”

There’s a moment of silence, both of you holding your breath. Waiting. Him for you to say something, tell him what you want; you for.. Well, you’re not entirely sure.

“Not in love with your hesitation on that,” you admit, narrowing your eyes, mock-serious despite the flutter in your stomach.

He laughs, shaking his head. “I was just thinking the same thing, been wondering when I should ask you.” A kiss to your forehead, quick and sweet. “Guess you beat me to it.”

“Mm.” You nod, lips pressed together but smiling nonetheless. “Guess I did.”

Jay hides his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady against your skin. “Your boyfriend?” he asks, voice muffled, lips tracing the curve of your collarbone. There’s a slight tremor in his grip—like he needs reassurance too. When you nod, his fingers press into your waist as though he’s trying to make sure you’re really there, that the moment is real, that you are.

“Yes,” he says, and you feel the words more than you hear them, spoken into your skin. “Of course.”

Your heart swells, the feeling of him against you blending into a heady warmth, sticky as the syrup down the drain, sweet as the orange you’d shared. Too much but not enough. Again, your lips find each other, drawn like magnets. A low groan escapes him when your fingers weave into his hair, tugging, the sound making you shudder as his hands find the curve of your ass resting there, grabbing. Kissing and kissing and kissing. Jay’s lips quirk up, smiling, he’s always smiling.

Then, from the doorway, a thud.

You flinch, breaking apart with racing hearts as you look over. Minjeong. Jaw dropped. Tote bag dumped by her feet. She’s looking between the two of you, eyebrows furrowed. Not quite surprised, but.. confused, you think. “Is this actually happening?” she asks.

Hardly believing the situation yourself, you don’t respond.

“I hope so,” Jay says, his smile audible.

Silence follows, and Minjeong steps further into the room, arms crossed, eyeing him like he’s the enemy. She points an accusatory finger at him, so close you can feel the warmth radiating from her. “Don’t mess this up. Don’t hurt her.”

He raises his brows, blinking like a scolded child. “I won’t,” he says, a smile creeping onto his lips.

“I’m serious,” she continues, voice still firm but softening slightly. “You look after her, okay? I’ve spent a long time rooting for you, so don’t make me regret it.”

You stand there, mortified, hiding your face in Jay’s chest, as his hand rubs soothing circles on your back. “MJ, please,” you mumble into his skin. “I’m right here.”

“I know,” she replies. “That’s why I’m saying this.”

Jay wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you close and smiling at you when you resurface. “I’ll take care of her,” he says, gaze locked on yours, butterflies stirring in your stomach as he speaks. Lifting his head, he looks over at Minjeong. “I promise.” He extends his pinky finger and she looks at it like it’s offensive, scoffing.

And with that, she turns on her heels and leaves the two of you alone in the kitchen. At the sound of Minjeong’s door closing down the hall, Jay lets out a breath, looking relieved in a way you hadn’t noticed he wasn’t. He looks down at you again, a sheepish smile on his face. “She’s a little scary,” he mumbles, hands finding your waist again, pinching.

As if sensing your boyfriend’s terror, she texts you before you can console him, the notification’s ping! making him flinch.

Minjeong: SO HAPPY FOR YOU😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭don’t tell ur man but I wanted to hug you both so bad.. Needed to be scary bff for today but another time I swear

Minjeong: JAYN FINALLYYYYYYYYYYYYY 🥳

You: I LOVE YOU

You: He saw my screen btw sorry pookie

You: I can’t stop smiling..

Minjeong: Loser. (same)

Minjeong: I love you more.

PDA has never mattered to you in the past, not in the way that some are against it, or others live for it—you’ve never cared one way or the other. If a partner took your hand while walking, you wouldn’t pull away, but you probably wouldn't be the one to initiate it either. Kissing in front of others was okay, but typically reserved for greetings, or something special, and only ever a peck unless you were drunk. But with Jay, you just can’t help yourself. You don’t have to think about reaching for him—it just happens. Fingers locking with his, your head on his shoulder, only realising when his thumb brushes the back of your hand, or his head rests on top of yours. When you’re together, it’s like the concept of personal space doesn’t exist between you.

Even after a week of hanging out almost every day, your friends still light up at the sight of you and Jay together, practically swooning whenever he pours a drink for you or kisses your temple. You won’t act like you don’t like the attention, even when it comes in the form of Donghyuck groaning at you, covering his eyes. Tonight, though, told off by Jaehyun and Yizhuo, he doesn’t say anything. Not even when Jay joins the four of you in the kitchen, greeting you with a kiss in front of them, hand slipping into your back pocket. And it stays there when you walk back into the living room, thumb grazing the top of your shorts, his touch soft, but sending shivers up your spine anyway.

The group is sprawled around the room, the TV on though no one is watching, and from the dining table, Minjeong says aww when she sees you and Jay. Jeno offers a bright grin from the seat beside her, looking at you both like he’s watching something inevitable as he raises his glass of water in a silent toast. Jay pulls you into him when he sits on the couch, and the night spills out around you, cosy, comfortable. Lamps turned on as the sun sets outside, easy laughter cutting over the faint hum of the music, Jay’s chin on your shoulder, his arms around your waist, fingers tracing lazy circles on the fabric of your tank top—no hesitation when he lets his touch fall to your hip.

Minjeong joins you on the couch, sinking into the cushions next to you. Her cheeks are flushed from drinking and the heat that sticks her hair to her cheeks and neck. She’s on the verge of sleep, blinking heavily, each one longer than the last. Still, she manages a smile, shaking her head when you tell her to go to bed.

“It’s so nice seeing you like this, all affectionate,” she mumbles after a while. “It suits you.”

You glance at Jay. His smile makes your heart race when he meets your gaze, soft and small like it’s something he’s keeping just for you. “Yeah,” you say quietly, turning back to Minjeong. “It does.”

She nods, letting her head fall back against the couch. You watch as she finally succumbs to sleep after having fought so valiantly against it and can’t help but smile. Gently, you brush her hair from her face, thinking about how easy this all feels—this group, this night, this moment. Jay’s hand rests on your thigh, his touch steady and familiar.

Before leaving, your friends help you tidy up—a task you notice is much easier when you’re sober, finding yourself more efficient tonight than ever. Save for Jay and Jeno, everyone else is slowed by sleepiness and alcohol, shuffling around the flat while fumbling with empty pizza boxes and drink bottles. Your comfort in this routine, however, is unchanged — heightened, maybe — spending even the mundane moments of the night in each other’s company, still reluctant to leave when the flat is tidier than when they arrived.

Jay stands by your side in the doorway, arm slipping around your shoulders as you watch Jeno and Yizhuo walk down the corridor towards the stairwell, staying put until you hear the door slam shut behind them. The apartment feels bigger now that it’s just the two of you — and Minjeong, sleeping soundly in her room — again. While he watches, you lock the door, double-checking it right away before you head towards the bathroom together.

Side by side, you brush your teeth in a comfortable quiet, shoulders bumping, maddening heat spreading over your skin from the contact. While washing your face, you watch Jay unfasten his belt in the mirror, stuck on his hands as he does—and you flush, mortified when he catches your gaze in the glass, smiling. Your eyes are screwed shut when he gets into the shower cubicle, sliding the door shut behind him—you don’t open them again until long after the water starts running. For a moment, you think about joining him, asking if you can, but can’t get the words out as you pat your face dry with a towel. In your room, you put on your pyjamas and get into bed, listening to the soft murmur of the shower while you wait for him.

Freshly showered, shirt dark around his collar, Jay joins you at long last. He’s humming an old song as he stands in front of the mirror, a towel in his hand, scrunching it through his damp hair. You watch from the bed, eyes tracing the familiar shape of him, his reflection hazy in the dim light. There’s something soothing about watching him go through his routine, fingers working essence through his hair, smoothing it with a quiet concentration you love. It’s all so familiar already, a comfort you never knew you’d been lacking.

Jay pulls his shirt over his head, and your breath catches in your throat. It’s a sight you’ve seen more times than you can count, but it still takes your breath away, Painted golden by the soft lamplight, his skin glows, honeyed and warm. His plaid pyjama pants hang low on his hips, the waistband of his underwear peeking out. He stretches his arms above his head, muscles shifting and flexing in his back, putting on a show—he must be.

Not wanting to endure your separation any longer, you pat the spot beside you like he can see. “Come to bed.”

He turns, grinning, the sight of it forcing warmth to curl through your chest. “You sleepy, baby?” he asks, voice dipping low, smooth like velvet.

“Just missing you,” you admit, shaking your head—he makes it so easy to say things like that.

His smile widens as he crosses the room, and you want him more with each step he takes towards you. Joining you in bed, he pulls you into him, wrapping you up in his arms and his scent, velvety and rich, warm and so Jay. He threads his fingers through your hair, a soft sigh slipping out of you as he kisses your temple.

“I’m right here,” he says, lips moving on your skin.

You’ve never felt so at ease. And you’ll never tire of kissing him, unable to resist—mouth on his before you even realise. He hums into the kiss, lips quirking up into a smile at your eagerness. His hand slips under your shirt, his palm on your lower back, holding you close. Whether he means to or not, hips buck against you, cock hard through his soft pants. Goosebumps crowd your skin at the feeling, a wave of desperation washing over you, so hot and all-consuming it pulls a moan from your chest.

It’s not the first time you’ve been here with him — it’s not even the first time today — but the familiarity of the situation only heightens your anticipation, rather than stifling it. Your hands find his hair, fingers threading through the strands and pulling absentmindedly, a groan tugged out of him, the two of you pressed so close together you feel the hum of it buzz against you. Already, you’ve shared so many moments like this, kissing and touching until your breath turns ragged. Hands in underwear and heads between thighs—always so close but never quite going all the way.

Jay’s lips leave yours, kissing along your jaw, wet and open-mouthed. Down your neck as your head tips back. Your collarbone, chest, right above your tank top before he stops, eyes fluttering open and locking on yours. The sight of him gives you pause, he’s unbearably pretty like this—looking up at you through long lashes, hair covering his forehead, parted lips swollen, red and glossy and perfect.

“Can I?” he asks, fingers caught on the fabric, unmoving.

You nod and he smiles sweetly, a warm look in his eyes that makes your heart race as his pinky hooks under the strap, pulling it down and letting it fall. The thin fabric is loose around your arm as it slips unceremoniously before resting. Nothing much has changed, at least where your level of decency is concerned, but he looks at your shoulder like it’s something special. Like you’re something special. For better or for worse, you don’t have time to dwell on this. He pulls the neckline down under your breasts, eyes blown and staring as if it’s his first time seeing you this way—bare-chested and wanting. A beat passes, unnerving before he leans in, his finger on your nipple as he presses a kiss to the spot below your ear, mumbling into your skin about how beautiful you are. At the compliment, at the pinch of his thumb and index finger on your nipple, the twist, a sigh slips out of you, equal parts relieved and turned on—this feeling only exaggerated when he lets his lips find your other breast, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin with his teeth. His teeth graze the bud, biting just a bit, barely enough to even feel, but your eyes screw shut anyway, thighs pressing together—forcing pressure where you need it, need him, the most.

It takes him a while to move on, kissing your stomach until he reaches your shorts and you lift your hips from the bed, desperate for him. He smiles and you can hear it, feel it on your skin as his fingers hook under your waistband, pulling your shorts and underwear down your legs. Your thighs part for him instinctively, his palms resting on your raised knees as he chuckles.

“You want it?” he asks, raising a brow.

You nod, stuck in a daze, under his spell.

Jay smiles, leaning in. His tongue finds your slit, licking slow, agonisingly slow until he reaches your clit. You gasp, toes curling from the contact as he groans against you, fingers threading through his soft hair. A wave of pleasure rushes over you at once, a desperate whine tumbling out of you when he catches your clit between his lips, sucking, grazing it with the tip of his tongue, humming around it. He’s enjoying it as much as you, revelling in the way you respond to him, every moan of his name and tug of his hair spurring him on.

You never last long with Jay, and tonight is no exception. Your back arches off the bed as he pushes his finger into you, working you open on his knuckles while his tongue swirls over your clit—eating you out like he worships you. It’s all too much all at once, almost unbearable. He only pushes his face further into you, fingers hitting your spot over and over as you come undone.

Pleased with himself, Jay sits up straight once you’ve calmed down, thumb stroking the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. His eyes are lidded, stuck on your clit like he needs more. His chin and plump lips are glowing, shining golden under the lamplight. He’s catching his breath, chest heaving, pretty face flushed. All while you watch, chewing on your bottom lip as he brings his right hand to his mouth, groaning around his fingers when he sucks on them.

He blinks his eyes open slowly, gaze flicking up to yours, needy. “So good, baby, always tastes so good,” he says.

For some reason, the words leave you flustered, hiding your face with your hands, suddenly shy as if you haven’t begged him to come on your face after sucking him off. As if you haven’t just had his head between your legs.

“Sweet girl,” he coos, a soft smile on his face as he crawls up the bed towards you. His torso over yours, hips dipping between your thighs. “You’re not shy, baby, I know you’re not shy. In fact, I think you like it when I talk like that, huh?”

Not trusting the steadiness of your voice, you shake your head.

“No?” Jay sounds surprised but you know he doesn’t buy it. “You don’t like hearing how much I love those pictures you’re always sending me? That video?”

Your cheeks burn as he moves your hands, smiling down at you and pressing a peck to your lips. When he pulls away, his dark eyes search yours, waiting for an answer. Too embarrassed to admit how much his compliments affect you — even though he seems to know — you mumble, “I like it a normal amount.”

“Yeah?” He raises a brow.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His cock throbs through his pants, the only thing separating you as his lips find yours—heat pooling in your stomach at the taste of yourself on his tongue. Jay grinds against you, the friction sweet, almost too much for how sensitive you are, making a mess on his pants that he doesn’t seem to care about. You can’t stop moaning, passing them from your mouth into his, choked out sobs slipping out of you until you can’t take it anymore. He whines into the kiss, the sound so hot you can hardly breathe. Hardly think to move your lips properly against his, teeth bumping a little, messy in the best way.

“Please,” you manage, somehow. “Need you.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, leaning back. Jay’s gaze meets yours, dark with want, lidded. Scanning your face, tracing every feature before meeting your eyes again.

Beyond desperate, your hips buck up against his. “Please, Jay,” you repeat, watching as he gets up without a word.

Jay’s standing by the bed, chest heaving as he pulls his pants down. Your stomach flips at the sight of the wet spot darkening his grey underwear, his cock hard and thick against the fabric, an outline you can’t look away from. He pulls his underwear off too, cock smacking his toned stomach with a wet sound, tip red, glossy, a shiny streak left in its wake as he wraps his palm around it. You couldn’t look away if you tried. He likes the attention though. He must. It’s obvious in the way he strokes himself, lets his thumb swipe his slit, spreading his precum. Brows knitting together, jaw slack, ragged breaths tugged out of his chest as his eyes trail over your body, gaze so focused it makes your cheeks burn.

Chewing on your lip, you manage to tear your eyes away from him — with much effort — reaching for your bedside table to get a condom out. Jay steps towards you, holding his free hand to take it from you, but you shake your head, and he raises a brow, tilts his head.

His hand cups your chin, tipping your head up to look at him. “No?”

“I want to put it on for you,” you mumble, eyes on his.

His eyes widen for a split second, a hum coming out of him as he nods, tracing your lips with his thumb as he says, “Go ahead, princess. Whatever you want.”

Ignoring the butterflies in your stomach at the pet name, you look down at your hands to tear the foil and take the condom out. Pinching the condom and rolling it down on him, you do your best not to think about the feeling of his cock in your fist, because you’ll be here all day if you don’t move on—doing your best not to think about the sigh he lets out under your touch, or the way he mutters good girl, under his breath.

In a moment, you’re lying on your back again, Jay over you as his eyes search into yours.

“Now, Jay. Please,” you whisper, about one more second away from begging.

Jay nods, ducking down to press a kiss to your cheek as his hand reaches for his cock, letting it glide over your slit—the feeling making him gasp. Anticipating courses through you, sweat beading on your skin’s surface, a sigh when he pushes in, finally. That sting, that stretch—your body trying to accommodate him. You have to tell yourself to relax, remind yourself to breathe through the thud of your heart beating in your ears.

“All good?” he asks, voice strained, breathy.

You nod, barely. “Uh huh.”

He keeps pushing, slow as he can, one inch at a time, filling you up and up and up until he bottoms out. Aching heat pulses between your legs, right where you connect, so full you can’t believe it. You can barely breathe. Jay lets out a sigh, a harsh breath, hot on your skin as his head falls forward, his nose in the crook of your neck.

“So full,” you whisper.

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles. A kiss to your shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Feels good,” you tell him on a shaky breath. “Just.. a lot.”

Jay chuckles at that, light and airy against your neck. “So perfect,” he says. “My perfect girl.”

His perfect girl. The sound of his voice, the feeling of his words on your skin, of him closer than ever makes you clench around him, forcing a muffled moan out of him and into your collarbone. A beat passes like this. Slow. Adjusting. Until, finally, Jay leans up on his palms, pulling his hips back as far as he can without slipping out. You hate the emptiness as soon as you feel it, but slowly, again, he thrusts into you, filling you up, fucking you open.

His eyes find yours, hand pushing hair from your face, resting on your cheek, thumb stroking your skin. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, keeping him there. You have never been so full or so in love in your life. You want to tell him, need to, but you can’t get the words out, can’t say anything. So, you kiss his palm instead, hoping he’ll understand.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes boring into yours.

You nod. You’re okay, you’ve never been better. The words are stuck in your throat. I love you, Jay. So much. I love you so much. You can’t speak. You can hardly breathe. You nod again, you’ve never been better.

“You feel so good, baby, so right,” he whispers. “Made just for me.”

Racing heart. Fluttering stomach. “Just for you,” you tell him. You mean it.

Jay smiles, lips brushing yours, a moan from your mouth to his when he moves. Slow. Gentle. Tender. Mumbled praises, soft whimpers, trembling breaths. His lips on your cheek, your neck—sucking the skin at the base, leaving a mark probably. A few. Your breath hitches, caught in your throat, as he rocks his hips against yours. He’s settled into a rhythm, steady enough now for his tip to brush that perfect spot, right where you need him, with each thrust.

“There,” you moan, eyes falling shut. “Fuck, Jay.”

Something shifts in him when you say that, his thrusts getting quicker, needier—so deep it doesn’t feel real. He’s moaning, your name slipping from his lips without constraint. His eyes are dewy, lips kiss-bitten, wet, red, parted just a touch, his sweat-damp hair clinging to his skin. Seeing him like this and knowing it’s because of you, that he wants you just as much as you want him only makes it that much better, that much more overwhelming. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing it in circles and sending your mind into a spiral until you’re nothing more than a whiny mess underneath him.

Jay leans towards your ear, his lips grazing its shell. “Want to see you make a mess, baby. Don’t hold back,” he says, his voice deep, the words hot against your skin.

Something about the depth of his voice, the heat of his words against your skin makes a flame burn blue in your stomach. It curls over you, engulfing you, heat and pleasure filling you up, expanding so much you can feel it in every corner of your body as you come undone around him, unravelling completely.

“Fuck,” he groans. “My pretty baby.”

You don’t have it in you to reply, you can’t. Not when Jay keeps going, his palm pressing on your stomach as he fucks into you, the sound, noisy and wet, fills the room. His thrusts lose their rhythm, slowing down a little, sporadic as his head falls into the crook of your neck, his moans muffled by your skin.

It takes a while for the two of you to come to, Jay only pulling out once he’s settled down, rolling over and pulling you into his chest. The feeling of his slick skin against yours should be uncomfortable in this heat but it’s exactly what you need, his palm stroking your back as he whispers into your hair. There’s something so tender about the moment that you feel your heart swell against your ribcage, beating a mile a minute.

Jay wipes you clean with his t-shirt before carrying you off to the bathroom. You don’t have it in you to protest, completely spent, eyelids heavy, yawns impossible to suppress as he sets you on your feet in the shower. Steam curls quickly around the cubicle, and being here with Jay makes you acutely aware of every single inch of your body, and the feeling of his fingers all over it. The water slips over you in soft rivulets, the warmth wrapping around you like a blanket. Jay reaches for the soap, gently lathering your shoulders, his hand brushing yours as your eyes fall shut, leaning against him.

The night air clings to your skin as you lie back in bed, warmth still heavy in your room despite the distant hum of the fan, and the open window. Jay watches you, eyes fixed in a way that makes your heart skip, and you can’t help but laugh softly.

“What is it?” you ask, the word more breath than sound.

He shrugs, the smallest lift of his shoulder, as if he’s embarrassed by the simplicity of it. “Nothing,” he says, voice soft, eyes unwavering. “I just love you.”

It’s blurted out, like it slipped past his defenses before he could catch it. An accident, he seems to think—he immediately turns his head, face hidden in the pillow. But you can see the flush blooming on the tips of his ears, the back of his neck turning a deep, warm pink. Vulnerable. Exposed.

For a moment, you’re stunned, the words hanging in the air between you—fragile and precious. There’s no stopping the warmth blooming in your chest, spreading like sunlight through your veins until it reaches every part of you. A tickly flutter disrupts your stomach, butterflies going mad at the thought, the knowledge—he loves you. Said it like it was the most natural thing in the world to say, like it’d been on his mind for a while, sitting on the tip of his tongue waiting for the perfect moment. You can’t help the grin that splits over your lips, too wide to contain. Reaching out, you let your fingers card through his soft hair, touch as gentle as you can manage.

“If it makes you feel any better,” you whisper, voice soft but sure. “I love you too.”

Slowly, Jay lifts his face from the pillow, eyes wide, almost disbelieving. A pretty flush dusts his cheekbones, eyes locking onto yours, excitement flickering behind them like a fire’s first spark, making your heart race. His lips part to speak, moving soundlessly for a beat before he gives you a butterfly-inducing, knee-weakening grin, a breathy laugh slipping out of him. He pulls you closer, hands cradling your face like you’re something special, something he can’t quite believe is real. The thought makes your pulse trip over itself. Jay’s lips are soft against your, slow, gentle, kissing you like you have all the time in the world to do it.

With time, the novelty of your and Jay’s relationship has worn off amongst your friends. Gone are the gasps when you kiss Jay’s cheek, and the awws (and singular gag from Donghyuck) when either of you does anything in the other’s general vicinity. So no one says anything when you reach Jimin’s place, hand in hand as you join the group in the backyard, or when you lay in a lounge chair and Jay leaves the boys to join you, laying on top of you, with his head on your chest while you’re talking to Minjeong and Yizhuo—neither girl missing a beat, continuing the conversation like nothing happened.

For you however, every brush of Jay’s lips on your skin, every smile sent your way from across the room, just the feeling of his eyes on you — so soft and so fond and so full of love — is still enough to make you and the butterflies in your stomach giddy. And you suspect it always will be.

There are a few things you separate for, like going to the bathroom, helping Jimin put food in the oven, and getting into the pool for a game of chicken while Jay stays behind, cheering for you and Jaehyun from the grass with Jeno and Jake. But when it’s all said and done, time and time again, you find yourselves gravitating back to one another, and you end up leading Aeri over to him while drying your hair after the game.

The two of you lay undisturbed at the back of the garden, only a fleecy blanket separating your skin from the dry grass. In Jay’s company, everything else — the music, the sounds of your friends — falls away, lost to the world outside your bubble. And like they’ve been since that night in your room, his hands are on you, smoothing sunscreen over your shoulders with as much care as a sculptor.

“There,” he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction as though he’s created a masterpiece, not just protected you from the climbing UV index. His hands linger, then drag lazily down your back as you let out a laugh through your nose. You don’t tell him to stop, you don’t want him to, loving the security you feel under his touch, how it always feels like a claim—the thought sends a rush of warmth through you, a quiet thrill humming beneath your skin.

Much to Donghyuck’s loud disgust, Jay feeds you a bite of his pizza at the garden table. He rolls his eyes, slumping in his seat across from the two of you. “Somehow, I liked you two more when you were pretending not to know your feelings were mutual.” He makes a big show of putting his cup down on the table while you laugh at him. “And you were really annoying back then.”

“Back then? That was only three weeks ago..” Jaehyun says, playing with the tab on his Guinness.

Donghyuck is incredulous, saucer-eyed as he whips his head in Jaehyun’s direction. “Three weeks?!” he repeats, horror covering his face as Jaheyun nods. “Feels like a lifetime,” he mutters, shaking his head.

Against your back, Jay’s chest vibrates with laughter, warm and healing on your skin. His head falls forward, hair tickling your shoulder. Fidgeting with your necklace you get lost in your thoughts, hardly believing either that you and Jay have only been together for three weeks—have only really known each other for a few months. Those months gone like seconds, everything changing right before your eyes. It’s already the end of August and the end of summer is right at your fingertips if you stretch enough—all while things have only just begun with you and Jay.

Bellies full, a cider in his hand and yours in the other, you retreat to the blanket, to your bubble. There you lie together under the sun, talking, playing with his hair, and stealing kisses. Again, the world blurs at the edges, conversations falling away, unnoticed by either of you. Only as the sun goes down and the night air turns cool, do you take note of the shift—the party suddenly swelling around you, more people arriving, laughter rising. You put your skirt back on, steal Jay’s button-up, and see Mark and Jaemin sitting on the garden swing together, beaming at each other as Kim Chaewon takes a seat between them.

Next to you, Jay can’t take his eyes off of you, grinning like always. A flutter in your stomach. Like always.

“You know,” you say, half-joking. “A picture would last longer.”

He shakes his head like he’s scolding himself internally. “Why didn’t I think of that?” he asks sincerely, pulling his phone from his pocket before you can say anything else. Jay’s smile deepens as snaps a few photos, looking at you when he’s done like you’re something he wants to keep forever.

With wobbly knees and a racing heart, you go to button up his shirt, but he gives you a look—one that stops you mid-motion, that says more than words could ever manage, so you leave it open. The sleeves are much too long, hanging well past your hands. He rolls them up for you, his fingers quick, warm, efficient.

“You look ridiculous,” he teases, but the warmth in his voice betrays him, his grin finally faltering when you remind him that the shirt’s too big for him too.

Pleased with his work, both sleeves rolled to your elbows, his hands are on your waist — hot and deliberate — and his lips are on yours. Soft and lingering, not caring for the steadily growing crowd in Jimin’s garden or if any of them see. Even as the night urges on, those hands, that touch, don’t leave you. Chin on your shoulder while you pour a drink in the kitchen. Fingers twirling around the strings of your bikini bottoms while you close the lemonade. Lips on yours before you have a chance to take a sip—cool Malibu and lemonade running down your arm, wetting your sleeve.

Through the window above the sink, your friends are around the garden table, sitting on laps and sharing drinks, laughing mouths wide open, an empty seat next to the fence waiting for you and Jay to join them. Everyone’s smiling when you do, Jay sitting first and pulling you into his lap, arms around you. His hand slips to your thigh, fixing your skirt, thumb moving in lazy circles on your skin. Minjeong catches your eye, a knowing smile on her lips as she squeezes your knee—a perfect moment. A perfect summer.

Hours later — when everyone’s gone home, and the only proof tonight even happened is your damp bikini on Jay’s doorknob, still smelling vaguely of chlorine, and a text to Minjeong, saying you and Jay got home okay, knowing she’ll tease you later about calling his place home — you get into bed with him, a smile on your face, and the certainty of two things: he’ll be here in the morning, and so will the sun, rising as always, like it tends to do.

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bbsantc · 8 months ago

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Definitely a must read. Please do not deprive yourselves of reading such a beautiful and heartwarming fic😭😭

To, Future You | S.JY

sim jaeyun x fem!reader warnings: fluff, smut (mdni), unprotected sex, oral (f. rec), fingering, spitting, body worshipping, whimpering and whiney jake, mutual pining, confessions, mentions of alcohol, anti-men in some parts, not proof-read anything else lmk! wc: 16.1k synopsis: in your fourth year of secondary school, your home room teacher made you write a 'to future you' letter to someone in your class. while you had no idea who to write it to, sim jaeyun knew exactly who would receive his letter. he just never expected it to actually come through 10 years later. a/n: hi! so this was something that has been sitting in the back of my mind for a while. i saw a tiktok that was someone writing a confession letter and ten years later receiving it so that is the inspo (pls if anyone knows it please send me the link so i can tag it!) i hope you enjoy this, after i post this i am taking a little break and stepping back so i can focus on my heeseung series! there might be some random fics here and there but i wont be posting as much (sorry!) as always, feedback, likes, reblogs, and comments are all welcome <3 ilysm

Your phone vibrates on your cluttered office desk, a blessed interruption from the mundane chore of sifting through emails. With a sigh, you pick it up, expecting yet another spam message or discount offer. However, as you enter your pin and swipe down the notification, your curiosity piques, and your posture straightens instinctively, uncrossing your legs and firmly planting both feet on the ground.

The screen displays the sender as 'To Future You'. Memories flood back from a decade ago when your teacher, Mr. Yang, initiated a unique project in your fourth year of secondary school. Instead of the typical 'what I think will happen in 10 years' pitch, Mr. Yang offered a more intriguing idea that got the students on board.

Your class was tasked with writing letters to someone else in the class, detailing how you perceived them then and what you believed they would become in the future. Mr. Yang's intention was to leave everyone with a lasting memory, knowing that some would stay for fifth and sixth years, while others would move on to college or the workforce.

He didn’t pair you all up, leaving you to your own devices; it could be a friend or someone random, the only stipulation being that it was someone from your home room.

Honestly, you hadn’t given it much thought at the time, sending one to the girl next to you with hopes that her dreams would come true. All your friends were in different classes, so you couldn’t even enthusiastically engage with the exercise.

However, you never expected to get one yourself. Your home room was filled with the popular girls and guys who were a world away from you and your quiet life. While they were out partying and having fun, you were studying to get into University, promising yourself a life of fun after you had graduated with friends you made along the way.

Of course, that’s not how it worked and you found yourself in a job you hated with bosses who make sly remarks about you and your competency even though you are much better at your job than any of these middle-aged losers. What’s that song from Bowling For Soup? High School Never ends, and by fuck were they right.

So as you stare at the unread email, you brace yourself for the torment from school to haunt you now as a 26-year-old. There was one girl from class who hated you, convinced that you ratted her out for smoking in the girls’ bathroom, which by the way, you had no part in; perhaps this letter is cursing you out wrongfully one final time.

Yet, the letter is not anything of the sort, leaving your palms sweaty at the unexpected turn.

Hi, Y/N.

How are you doing? From the looks of it, you’re struggling with what to write. Me too if I am being honest. This is a bit weird, isn’t it? I feel so strange writing these words when you're just a few seats away.

Anyway, hi again!

I don't know why I'm pouring my thoughts out to you of all people, but…I trust you. You’re genuinely nice and kind to everyone, even when others aren't :( sorry about that, by the way, for my friends. They can be real pissheads, and I personally hope they live unfulfilling lives. Once I leave next month, I pray I never have to see them ever again.

Is that too harsh?

Sorry, I should get back on track. You look super pretty today! I noticed you got a new bracelet. Was it for your birthday? Come to think of it, your birthday must have just passed if you're receiving this 10 years later, so happy 26th birthday, I guess! It’s so strange to imagine you as a 26 year old, or me for that matter lol.

I’m supposed to predict what I see your life like in the future, right? I think you’re an amazing lawyer (that is what you’re going to study at University, isn’t it?) I peer-reviewed one of your English papers once and you made me totally change my mind on The Woman in Black, I mean, she shouldn’t have tormented him but she was also grieving. I knew then that you could see the good in everyone, exactly what a good lawyer should be. Umm…you’re probably happily living with your husband who you met in a lecture and bonded over some conversation about how to save the world or what near extinct animal you should fundraise for.

I’m jealous of him just thinking about it.

Can I make a confession? Since I don’t think we’ll miraculously become friends and you’ll somehow read this while I sit beside you. It’s actually the real reason I’m writing this to you (I lied earlier about not knowing, I just didn’t know if I would say this part lol.)

I like you, as in, like you - like you. I have since first year when you walked into homeroom with your hair tied up and your Hello Kitty backpack. I might even be in love with you, as much as a 16 year old boy can be. You’re so passionate and beautiful that I can’t keep my eyes off you. Even now in the computer room, I’m staring straight at you and you haven’t even looked my way once. It always goes like this but I don’t blame you for it, don’t worry! It’s my fault, I should stop being a coward and ask you out, or at least try and be friends with you.

I’m leaving at the end of fourth year, I hate this place, to be honest. I have no idea what I am going to do or who I am and I’m scared as fuck. I wish in another life I could have you by my side through adulthood. I think it’s the only way I can cope, it’s the only reason I survived this hellhole. One look at you, and I feel safe, like the world isn’t crashing down on me. That’s weird, isn’t it? To think that about someone you don’t speak to.

This is coming off as creepy, like I don’t stalk you or anything, don’t worry. I just can’t express my feelings well but I guess it’s as simple as:

I think I love you, I hope no matter what happens in the future you have the life you deserve, and if I do happen to build up the courage at the end of the year to confess and you fall in love with me and I am in fact that husband I spoke about earlier (although way cooler and less of a knob) then do not speak about this lol.

Take care of yourself, Y/N. The world is so much brighter with you in it.

~ Your secret admirer.

LOL imagine I left you hanging like that :P

~ It’s Jaeyun (Sim, not Lee)

You stare blankly at your phone screen, the words swirling before your eyes like a whirlpool of emotions. A tidal wave crashes over you, leaving you paralysed in your seat, suspended in a moment of disbelief and regret. It's as if time itself has come to a standstill, and the world around you fades into insignificance as you grapple with the weight of Jaeyun's confession.

How could you not have noticed? How could you have been so blind to his feelings, so oblivious to the subtle signs of affection that now seem painfully obvious in hindsight? Jaeyun, of all people, someone who had offered you a smile while his friend group glared at you, or how he volunteered to be your dancing partner during PE, all that time you figured he was doing it to mock you when in fact, he was someone who had seen you for who you truly were when others merely glanced over you.

Jaeyun had been there all along, quietly observing, silently hoping for a chance to make his feelings known.

And you wish he did because out of all the popular students in your year, he was the one you would have been opened to. You had a crush on him like any girl does in their youth, but that's all you thought it was, an unrequited crush that could never be anything more than that. Yet, here he was telling you he liked you, so casually, in a letter he wrote at 16.

In his predictions, he was right about one thing - you are a lawyer, a damn good one at that. It’s amazing how he even knew that considering you don’t remember telling him nor did you share any inclination with even your friends that you were planning to go to Uni for it. It wasn’t for any reason other than usually when you tell someone you are going to do something, you end up never achieving it.

However, he missed the mark on the marriage front. Between the demands of University and your intensive full-time job, which frequently spills over into overtime, your romantic life has mostly consisted of fleeting Tinder dates and occasional hookups. Yet, it's not a life steeped in sorrow, marriage and children have never ranked high on your list of priorities, so you harbour no discontentment with your current relationship status, not really...

Suppressing the lump in your throat, you resort to the timeless ritual that any single woman in her mid-twenties indulges in upon discovering that someone from high school had an interest in her, particularly when she once found him undeniably attractive and frequently mentioned him to her closest friends back in the day: you embark on an Instagram stalking expedition, naturally.

Abandoning your pile of emails and the documents of your current case, you cast aside all distractions in a quest for Jaeyun. Despite only sharing a couple of conversations with him that linger in your memory, you're compelled to uncover what he's been up to. Typing his name into the search bar, you hold your breath, hoping that finding him won't prove too difficult given his distinctive name.

Thankfully, user simjakeyun emerges with ease, and in no time, you find yourself perusing his profile.

There he is, just as you recall him - those beguiling puppy eyes you once avoided now ensnaring you with their warmth, and that infectious smile rendering him ageless. As you delve into his world, you're entranced by the adventures he shares and the moments he has captured. His life appears so rich and fulfilling that you can't help but feel a pang of contrast with the dreary confines of your current office.

As you scroll, you see how he is embracing life to its fullest, travelling the world and seeing countries you can’t even point out on a map, all while you find yourself tethered to the prison of your office walls for hours on end. It's not that you despise your own life, but in this moment of comparison, a sense of discontentment begins to gnaw at you.

There are a few girls on his page but none that are consistent, with no wedding ring and no kids, you wonder whether it’s worth dropping him a message.

Are you really going to slide into Sim Jaeyun’s DMs? Yes. Yes, you are.

Creating a new private message, you hesitate, staring at his profile picture at the top of the screen. That beautiful smile makes you second-guess yourself. Why would he care about a silly little message from you? He’s out there striving and thriving, while your Instagram chronicles the life of a busy lawyer with only two close friends and an obvious wine addiction due to the countless glasses that makes frequent appearances.

You linger on the message screen, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. The doubts swirl in your mind, but something pushes you forward. Taking a deep breath, you begin to type.

"Hey Jaeyun, it's been ages! I just stumbled across your profile and couldn't resist saying hi. It looks like you've been on some incredible adventures. How have you been?"

You pause, re-reading the message. It feels both too casual and overly formal at the same time. With a sigh, you delete the last sentence and try again. Your mind is screaming at you not to bring up the letter, yet it might be the only way to get a response. At the end of the day, he was right - you weren’t friends in school, so why pretend you were just to start a conversation? Surely, that would make him think you were a weirdo.

But he told you he might be in love you, and you’ve gone ten years without knowing. Bringing it up could be the key to getting a genuine reaction from him, but it could also backfire spectacularly. He might recoil, feel uncomfortable, and even block you completely. You know you'd have that reaction if the roles were reversed.

Taking a deep breath, you decide to take the plunge. You start typing a new message, carefully choosing your words.

Hi Jaeyun! I don’t know if you remember me but the funniest thing just happened. Do you remember Mr. Yang made us write those letters to someone in the class that would be sent ten years later? I got one today…from you, actually! You probably won’t remember but I thought I would let you know that I got it and thank you :)

You hesitate before hitting send, re-reading it over and over again to avoid spelling mistakes and accidentally telling him that he told you he loved you. As the message goes through, your heart races and a mix of anxiety and anticipation swirls inside you. This is a leap of faith, and all you can do now is wait.

_____

Unfortunately, all you do is wait because it's been two days, and Jaeyun hasn't replied. The silence is deafening, amplifying your doubts and fears. You replay the message over and over in your mind, wondering if you said too much or too little.

It has to be because you mentioned the letter; he probably has a girlfriend. It wouldn't be uncommon for a guy as gorgeous as him to be snapped up quickly. He probably has one of those stunning girlfriends with long blonde hair and a figure straight out of Vogue.

You try to push the thoughts aside, but they persist, gnawing at you. Doubts mingle with vivid imaginations of his perfect life, further widening the gap between your reality and the fantasy you've constructed. Much like he passively fantasised about the prospect of being your husband all those years ago, you now find yourself lying on your couch, imagining what it would be like to be his wife.

The images in your mind are vivid and alluring: travelling the world together, exploring new places, sharing laughs and quiet moments. You picture the two of you living in a charming apartment, hosting dinner parties, and supporting each other through life's ups and downs. The fantasy is intoxicating, but it also leaves you feeling a bit hollow as you contrast it with your current life.

Why are you thinking about all of that about a man you haven't seen or cared about in 10 years? Are you really that desperate, wallowing over what could have been when you had practically forgotten about him?

The more you dwell on it, the more you realise how much you've let his lack of response affect you. Deciding that it's time to regain control of your thoughts, you put your phone aside and focus on something productive. You dive into cleaning your house, finally discarding the takeaway boxes and clothes thrown around the room.

As you clean, the physical activity provides a welcome distraction and a sense of accomplishment. You clear the clutter, creating a more organised and inviting space. Each piece of trash you throw away and each item you put back in its place helps you feel more in control. The mess around you had mirrored the turmoil in your mind, and now, with each cleaned surface, you feel a bit more at peace.

You remind yourself of your strengths and the life you've built. Your career, your friends, your favourite plant that you bought on a whim - all these things are a testament to the vibrant and dynamic life you lead. You're not defined by a response from Jaeyun.

His life is not yours and yours is not his. You are an independent-

*ping*

Leaping over your couch, you unlock your phone and see the Instagram notification and smile brightly, like it was a job offer you’ve been patiently awaiting or an early release of your favourite manga. The rush of anticipation and excitement courses through you as you eagerly open the app to read Jaeyun's message.

Hey there! Sorry about the delay in getting back to you. I've been on a marathon journey back from the UK over the past few days. Opted for the budget ticket, and obviously, it turned into a 36-hour saga with three stopovers 😅. But hey, I'm finally back home!

It's genuinely awesome to hear from you! Can you believe that letter actually made its way to you? I half-suspected it was some scheme Mr. Yang cooked up to sneak a smoke break with Mr. Kim lol.

I remember writing that letter! I said a few things in there...didn’t I? 😳 So, are you still in town? We should totally catch up tomorrow if you're free. I'm all yours if you'll have me.

Your heart skips a beat as you read Jaeyun's message, a rush of excitement coursing through you. His casual tone and mention of the letter bring a smile to your face. It's a relief to see that he's not put off or weirded out by your message; instead, he seems genuinely happy to hear from you.

His apparent recollection of what he said in the letter adds a layer of complexity to the situation. He may want to meet up to address it, perhaps to clarify that it was meant as a joke or to downplay its significance. You find yourself mentally preparing for the possibility of him saying something along the lines of, "Hey, sorry, that was just a joke, so please don't read into it."

While you tell yourself that you'll accept his explanation, deep down, you know that these past two days have shown that you may not take it as casually as you initially thought. If a simple message, or lack thereof, got you in such a tizzy, you can't imagine how you'd react to a rejection of a confession that you didn't even make.

Regardless, you type your response rapidly, not caring if it makes you look desperate and available.

You must be exhausted after travelling! But I'm glad you made it back home safe and sound. I'm free tomorrow. Can you do after 6pm? There's this cosy cafe downtown that's perfect for catching up, it’s called Daisies. I'll make sure to save you a seat. Looking forward to it!

With a quick tap, you send the message, feeling a mix of anticipation and nervousness about tomorrow's meeting. However, you don’t get long to be alone with your thoughts as another ping of your phone comes through.

Do they do double Jack and Cokes? I think I might need it if I remember what I wrote lol…😅

In all honesty, you might need one as well.

_____

Straightening the napkins on the table for the seventh time in the space of an hour, you watch the door patiently, anticipation coursing through your veins, waiting for Jaeyun to walk through the glass door of the bar you had both settled on. Each of you knew that you wouldn’t be able to have this conversation without some form of alcohol.

It’s not that you’re nervous about seeing him again; after all, you used to see him every day. But it's the weight of the conversation that looms over you. The realisation that the first real conversation you are going to have with him throughout all these years is about a letter he confessed to you in - a letter never meant for you to read because he thought it was a hoax assignment. His actions, unintentional as they may have been, have consequences, and you can't shake the uncertainty of it all.

As the minutes tick by, each second feels heavier than the last. You find yourself lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, replaying scenarios and conversations in your mind, trying to predict how tonight's encounter might unfold. Will Jaeyun be as casual and friendly as his messages suggested, or will there be an underlying tension lingering beneath the surface?

The sound of the door opening snaps you out of your reverie, and you glance up, heart pounding, only to find it's just another punter entering the bar. You let out a sigh, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly, but the anticipation remains palpable.

You take a deep breath, reminding yourself to stay calm and composed. This is just Sim Jaeyun, not an ex, not a lost lover, not your dad’s work colleague—there is nothing to be nervous about.

“Y/N?”

Jaeyun’s melodious voice breaks through your thoughts, and you look up to meet his gaze with wide eyes, startled by his sudden appearance. How on earth did he manage to slip through that door without you noticing? The surprise registers on your face as you take in his presence, a mix of amusement and disbelief dancing in your eyes.

"Jaeyun, hey!" you exclaim, your voice betraying your surprise as it breaks, forcing you to clear the bubble in your throat and quickly regain your composure. “I mean, when did you get here?”

He laughs loudly, the rich sound filling the room as he takes the seat opposite to you. The genuine warmth of his smile is infectious, closing his eyes slightly as he enjoys the moment. “Just a minute ago, I went up to the bar first to order us a drink. You like white wine, yeah?”

Nodding, you tilt your head, intrigued. “Yeah, how did you know that?”

“I saw you started without me,” Jaeyun chuckles once again, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes as he points to your empty glass, “I made an educated guess.”

You can't help but marvel at Jaeyun's appearance. His features are striking, his smile infectious, and there's a certain magnetism about him that draws you in. It's as if he effortlessly commands attention without even trying. A face that gorgeous shouldn’t be allowed to roam so freely, you think to yourself. It should come with a warrant, or at the very least a warning label.

He’s also wearing a pretty cream jacket with a simple white Stussy t-shirt, and some cargo jeans. His hair is much longer than when he was younger, with whisps of his fringe covering his face.

It’s parallel to your business-casual outfit, having just come from the office you decided to opt for a baby pink blouse - in honour of your hero Elle Woods, a cream thigh-length skirt, and a pair of kitten heels. It wasn’t exactly how you wished to dress while meeting Jaeyun again for the first time but due to having consultation with clients, you couldn’t exactly wear a little black dress.

Not that Jaeyun minds; as you’re lost in thought, his eyes are tracing over your body, how your clothes look tailor-made and your tits are sitting beautifully. He feels like a perv for staring at you, this is the first time he’s seen you in so long and here he is, eye fucking you. Though who could blame him? Even as he focuses on your face, forcing his eyes to leave the contours of your curves, all he can stare at is your lips and how they’ve been freshly glossed.

Clearing his throat, Jaeyun tries to shake off the inappropriate thoughts flooding his mind. "So, how have you been?" he asks, his smile innocent yet tinged with nervousness.

"Good. Yeah, good. You?" you respond, keeping your tone neutral, not revealing too much about your well-being. To you, your life is boring and lacks anything worth speaking about.

"Yeah...good," Jaeyun replies, the awkward tension between you palpable in the air.

The atmosphere strange, a tense undercurrent clouding the breezy air. Being alone with him, even being with him at all, feels unfamiliar and stirs a tinge of awkwardness in you. Luckily, he seems just as uneasy.

But when your eyes finally meet, you both burst out laughing, the tension melting away. The sound of your harmonious laughter fills the bar, louder than the soft hum of music or the chatter of others in the background.

His laugh is just as infectious as you remember it, filling the air with its higher-pitched squeals that seem to come in four successions. You watch with fondness as his body leans to the side, his eyes scrunching together in pure joy. It's a sight you hadn't realised you missed until now, a flood of memories rushing back to you in an instant. You hadn't known you knew that about him - the way he laughs, the way he tilts his head when he finds something amusing - but now, it's like a long-lost memory has suddenly resurfaced, and you're hateful to yourself for ever forgetting.

He straightens up, shaking his head to calm his amusement, yet the smile still beams from his face. Huffing out, he nods and looks at you, as though agreeing with his thoughts. “You know, I just realised that we haven’t ever spoken, so this is a bit awkward, isn’t it?”

Shaking your head, you lean forward, your fingers deftly smoothing out the tiniest wrinkle in your shirt as you relax, feeling your body shift with the new atmosphere. “That isn’t true, we had that conversation during country dancing classes.”

“Oh, you mean, ‘Can you not step on my foot, please?’ I would hardly count it as a conversation,” he dismisses it lightheartedly, offering you another chuckle as he remembers.

What he doesn’t know is that you do count it. It was your first proper encounter with him, and even though he kept squashing your toe under his tatty trainers, you let it go because it was also the first time you heard that melodic Australian accent say your name as he mumbled a quick, ‘sorry, Y/N’.

You both laugh again at the memory before the waiter brings over your drinks. “Cheers, mate. Thanks.” Jaeyun smiles politely at the man. It’s the bare minimum to thank your server, yet you can’t stop the butterflies in your stomach as he does so. It’s a testament to his kindness because most of the guys you have ever dated have been the type to snap their fingers or complain about the tiniest thing that could easily be fixed.

Not Jaeyun though, he is far too sweet to act like an arsehole. You haven’t even spent 10 minutes with him and you already know it.

As the waiter walks away, you reach for your wine before stopping for a beat, looking at it thoughtfully. There is a slice of lemon inside the glass, the sight peculiar not because you don’t like it, but rather because you do like it. It’s not conventional to have any garnishes on wine; most connoisseurs say that the wine is already perfect as made. But you like things extra bitter and everything citrus; it’s been this way since college.

You glance at Jaeyun as he sips his Jack and Coke, his attention solely on his drink, seemingly oblivious to your curiosity. Could he have known you liked wine this way? But how? It’s not like you brought a 125ml and a wedge to school. And you certainly don’t come here frequently enough for the bartender to remember you or your order.

The thought niggles at the back of your mind as you take another sip of your wine, mulling over the possibilities. Perhaps it's just a coincidence, you tell yourself, trying to rationalise the situation. But it also isn’t a big deal, you got what you wanted without asking for it which is a very rare occurrence, so you’ll take it and run.

Setting the thought aside, you indulge in a sip of the crisp wine, a contented hum escaping your lips as you enjoy the taste. With a playful shoulder dance, you set the glass down on the table. “So, how has life been since you left school?” you ask casually, even though as you glance up at him, you catch him licking the residue of his drink from his lips and it makes your body flush with heat.

Your gaze lingers for a moment longer than intended, a fleeting moment of admiration as you catch the subtle details of his expression.

“Really…amazing actually,” he begins, his voice laced with a sense of joy as a broad smile lights up his face. “When I left, I didn’t know what I wanted to do, so I just got a part-time job, saved up enough to travel and see my brother back in Australia, and from there...just travelled. I did odd jobs to make money, enough to pay rent for a few months at each place.”

As Jaeyun speaks, you can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy creeping into your thoughts. His carefree lifestyle, filled with adventure and spontaneity, sounds like a dream compared to your own mundane existence of endless paperwork and court cases.

“Wow, that sounds incredible,” you respond, trying to mask the envy in your voice with genuine interest. “Must have been amazing to just pick up and go wherever you want.”

Jaeyun nods enthusiastically, his eyes alight with the memories of his adventures. “It is liberating, honestly. I’ve learned so much about myself and the world. It was good for me, it turned out to be exactly what I needed.”

He takes another sip of his JD, his expression shifting to one of apology as he notices the dejected look on your face. “But what about you? Aren’t you a fancy lawyer now? That’s way more impressive than a country-hopper.”

You know he's just trying to be polite, but his words only serve to magnify your own feelings of inadequacy. In no world is your tiresome job and lack of social life anywhere near as impressive as what he has managed to accomplish in 10 years.

Taking a big swig of your drink, you bob your head from side to side, downplaying the enormity of your profession. “Yeah, it’s okay. It pays well and I do love it some days. I work in corporate law, so it isn’t as exciting as I would have liked.”

“You wanted to do immigration law, right?” Jaeyun asks, his tone is casual but his question catches you off guard.

You pause, your eyes narrowing with scepticism as you look at him. It's one thing for him to recall your career aspirations, but for him to remember the specific field you were interested in seems almost uncanny. After all, you never spoke about it except in your university applications. So unless he had some insider knowledge, there's no reason for him to know such specific details.

Nodding slowly, you set your wine glass down and lean back. “Yeah… how did you know that? I never told anyone about it.”

“I guess I'm just quite the observer,” he jokes, though there's a hint of sheepishness in his tone as he scratches the back of his neck. He curses himself inwardly for being so casual about a minute detail that he knows he shouldn’t know. “I actually, uh, I saw you checking out an Immigration Law and Social Justice book one day. Figured that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jaeyun wasn’t lying; that really was how he knew. It was just before summer break, and he was returning his physics books when he noticed you in front of him, a pile of books in one arm, the first one being about immigration law.

You look up to the ceiling, a smile of understanding spreading across your face as you let out a contented 'oh', finally piecing together the mystery. "That makes sense now. I was so confused when you wrote about me going on to become a lawyer in that letter because I could have sworn I never uttered a word to anyone."

“That’s right! I predicted you would be a snooty lawyer,” he exclaims, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he lightly bangs his fist on the table. His chuffed grin widens, spreading across his face like he's just won the first question on a quiz show.

Laughing, you nod in agreement. You don’t tell him that he never called you snooty because he also isn’t wrong as he adds the adjective. Although you’re easy going outside of the office, you hold yourself with high pride while at work, looking down on the men you work with. Perhaps you would be more kind if they weren’t gigantic arseholes with no morals.

So in that sense, yes, yes you are snooty.

“You also said I would be married with kids,” you point out, a chuckle escaping your lips as you recall the absurdity of the prediction.

“So? Did I get two for two?” Jaeyun retorts, a playful twinkle in his eyes as he wiggles his eyebrows. Beneath his casual demeanour, though, a subtle flutter stirs in his heart at the mention of a husband. He wants you to be happy, obviously - why wouldn’t he? But he can’t deny the pang of jealousy that tugs at him at the prospect of you being happy with another man.

You notice the subtle shift in Jaeyun's manner, the conflict between his words and the emotion flickering in his eyes, but you choose to let it pass without comment. Instead, you simply shake your head and lift your eyebrows, taking another sip of your white wine. If you don’t slow down, you’ll be finished five of these before Jaeyun has even made a dent in his first drink.

He audibly gasps at your silent confession, his surprise evident in the way his eyes widen and his jaw drops slightly. As much as he had hoped you wouldn’t have a man waiting for you at home, he can’t believe that you don’t.

“Seriously? I would have thought someone would have snapped you up in a heartbeat,” he admits, still flabbergasted that the bright and beautiful woman sitting before him is, in fact, single.

“Nope. I guess it’s just like high school,” you say, shrugging nonchalantly as you downplay the situation. Despite trying to be casual about it all, a hint of vulnerability lingers beneath the surface. You know how it looks, being in your mid-twenties and never having been in a serious relationship. It has made you wonder countless times about what could possibly be so repulsive that men don’t want to pursue a relationship with you.

But then you remember the richness of your life - a nice cosy flat, paying all your own bills, having friends who love you unconditionally, and a supportive family who stands by every decision you make. In the grand scheme of things, your life is fulfilling in its own right, far beyond the confines of a romantic relationship.

It doesn’t mean you don’t sometimes feel like you’re missing out though, but you've come to appreciate the career-driven journey that is yours alone.

Jaeyun's laughter fills the air, warm and genuine, but there's a certain intensity in his gaze as he looks you dead in the eyes. His iris’, a shade of deep brown flecked with golden hues, seem to hold a wealth of unspoken words, as if there's something he's yearning to express beyond the surface banter.

“Like high school? As in you’re too busy to notice people looking your way?” he quips, his voice light but tinged with a hint of vulnerability. There's a subtle shift in the atmosphere, a silent recognition of the unspoken truths dancing between you due to one letter.

This damn letter.

“You did mention how you would always look at me. Although, you made it very clear you were not a stalker,” you remark with a snort of laughter, thinking back to the playful disclaimer he had included in his letter. The tension between you dissipates slightly as you both chuckle loudly with one another much like before.

Even when the air is awkward, you both still manage to find comfort in it. Perhaps it’s because you both share feelings that none of you are aware of. As far as you’re concerned, he left those feelings behind in secondary school, and he thinks you’ve never cared about him at all.

Jaeyun covers his face as the memories invade his mind of writing and re-writing the paragraph to make you abundantly aware that he did not sit outside your house at night and watch you through the window - a sentence which was in the first draft - or that he didn’t transfer classes to National 3 Maths to be close to you - even though he did and he should have graduated high school with National 5, sacrificing his academic standing just to have the seat close to yours.

“Can I read it? I need to know what I should specifically be apologising for,” Jaeyun titters, his voice muffled by the palms of his hands as he peeks through his fingers at you. The request hangs in the air, laced with a mix of curiosity and trepidation, as if he's both eager and apprehensive to revisit the words he had penned so long ago.

Reaching for your phone in your bag, you nod, trifling through the empty wrappers of gum and secret chocolate bars you sneakily eat in the office. The last time you ate your well-deserved Mars bar, your boss made a snide comment about how you must be starting your period soon. It’s men like him that make Jaeyun’s bare minimum of thanking the waiter a much-needed standard.

You retrieve your phone and open up the letter, passing it to him which he awkwardly accepts, smiling apologetically at you already for whatever 16-year-old him thought was appropriate to say. He begins to scroll, his face changing from amusement to disdain and then back to amusement. Yet one solid feature is etched on his face the entire time, hiding behind the other emotions he is portraying but you can’t figure it out.

You observe Jaeyun as he clicks the phone to lock it, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face before he passes it back to you. There's a hint of apprehension in his eyes, mingled with a quiet resignation, yet he does what Jaeyun does best; he smiles and washes his true feelings away.

“It was even more cringe-worthy than I remember, I seriously gotta apologise that you had to read all of that,” he says with a self-deprecating chuckle, his tone light but carrying a hint of genuine remorse. It's his way of deflecting, of downplaying his confession, but you can't help but sense the underlying sincerity beneath his words.

"I honestly thought it was a joke when I opened it and saw your name," you admit softly, wary of your words. You don't want him to think you found his feelings laughable, but rather that receiving a love letter at all was the punchline, particularly back then.

Contrary to his portrayal in the letter, you didn't consider yourself pretty or beautiful in high school. You felt average, plagued by acne, with scars that still dot your face as lingering reminders. Your hair was often a mess, your face untouched by makeup, and you never settled on a style, finding them all too mismatched with your personality.

Upon hearing your confession, Jaeyun's eyes widen in disbelief. "Seriously? Why?"

You shrug, picking up your glass and swirling it thoughtfully before responding. "You were with Chris and the others, and let's be honest, they weren't exactly my best friends," you scoff, recalling the snide comments his friends used to make in passing, or the 'accidental' bumps that would cause you to drop your phone or books.

There is a pregnant pause in the air as Jaeyun's expression softens with understanding, a hint of regret shadowing his features. "I'm sorry you had to deal with all that," he murmurs, genuine remorse colouring his tone.

You offer a small, dismissive wave of your hand, attempting to brush off the memories. "Water under the bridge now," you say, though the bitterness still lingers beneath the surface. It wasn’t his fault; he had no control over his friends' actions, and in hindsight, he was the one in the group who never laughed at your discomfort or instigated trouble for you. He was always there to offer you an apologetic smile when you needed it.

Back then, it was hard to see him as an individual from the others, considering he was always by their side. But in retrospect you realise that your crush on him had been rooted in an unspoken recognition of his genuine and kind nature, even if in high school you couldn’t fully see it. You never hated him, the opposite in fact, and there was a reason for that.

A chuckle escapes Jaeyun's lips, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "If it makes you feel better, I got my wish," he says, laughter lacing his words as he knocks back the rest of his drink. "Half of them peaked in school, and Chris is divorced and balding as we speak."

You can't help but laugh along with him, the irony not lost on you. "Well, karma works in mysterious ways," you quip, raising your glass in a mock toast to the twists of fate.

Jaeyun grins, clinking his glass against yours. "Cheers to that."

Settling comfortably back in your seat, you smile fondly at him. Despite the heaviness of the conversation, you feel at ease. There’s something about him that makes you feel safe, a sense that no matter what’s going on in your mind, he can calm you down. You recall his words in the letter, how he could look at you and instantly feel better.

Jaeyun's gaze holds a gentle intensity, his eyes sparkling with a glint of satisfaction as he observes your visibly relaxed state. "It's nice seeing you like this," he murmurs softly, a hint of warmth lacing his voice. "I always hoped we'd have a moment like this someday."

You hum softly, grinning sheepishly at the prospect that Sim Jaeyun could have thought about you even after your school years. It does beg the elephant in the room to be addressed, however, both of you sneaking around the main focus of his written word.

"In the letter," you begin, feeling a curious mix of apprehension and anticipation swirl in your chest. The question hovers on the tip of your tongue, laden with the weight of untold possibilities. "Why didn’t you ask me out?"

The inquiry catches Jaeyun off guard, momentarily stalling his easy demeanour. He blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he recovers with a thoughtful expression. It's evident that he hadn't anticipated such directness from you, despite knowing your inquisitive nature all too well.

Straightening out his jacket with a nervous flick, Jaeyun adjusts his posture to convey a sense of faux confidence. He clears his throat and licks his lips, gathering his thoughts before speaking. "I shouldn’t have been a coward," he admits, his voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability.

Jaeyun's candid admission bubbles shock into you, yet you find it refreshing coming from a man. You nod in understanding, silently acknowledging his confession.

"You were just…you," he says, meeting your eyes with candour. "Smart, attractive, career-oriented, and determined to change the world. And I was just a screwy little kid with no life aspirations and nothing to offer a girl like you."

His words resonate within you, with a genuine honesty that is both disarming and charming. Despite his self-deprecating tone, you can't help but be empathic to the vulnerability he's exhibiting.

"I didn't see you that way," you say, your voice soft but genuine, hoping to convey that you never considered him beneath you. In your view, you could never be on his level, not in a negative sense, but in the understanding that he exuded charisma and confidence that seemed out of reach. Your personalities were too contrasting, with him being cool and outgoing, while you felt you would have fallen short.

Jaeyun lets out a rueful laugh, a wry smile playing on his lips. "You didn't see me at all, did you?" he replies, his tone carrying a mix of self-awareness and resignation.

His words hit you like a blow to the chest, a painful realisation dawning upon you. You wince, feeling yourself crumble inward, the weight of missed opportunities and unspoken truths bearing down heavily on your shoulders. If you had stuck your head out of your own bubble, maybe you would be sitting and having a drink with him as something more than high school could haves.

"I'm sorry about that," you say, your voice laced with regret. "I was so focused on studying and staying away from your crowd that I just didn't see."

Jaeyun's expression softens, his features reflecting a mixture of empathy and knowing. "It's alright," he says gently, reaching out to place a comforting hand on yours. “The way you were back then, it was exactly the reason I lo-, I liked you so much,” he confesses sheepishly, stumbling over his words as he skirts around the most obviously avoided topic of his letter.

Shaking off the intensity of the moment, Jaeyun gestures for the waiter to return, his easy smile returning as he orders more drinks, figuring that if he’s sipping, he isn’t saying something he might regret.

“So, tell me about being a lawyer.”

_____

For the next three hours, you both speak about everything and anything; from his adventurous travels to your disastrous dates, from your awful bosses to the state of the government, you discuss it all. Each topic seamlessly flows into another, and you find yourself conversing with ease, as if you're best friends on your weekly catch up.

As the evening progresses, you've shared stories, laughter, and even a few moments of vulnerability. The wine has flowed freely, the bottle emptying with each heartfelt story, while Jaeyun has indulged in his fair share of Jack and Coke, the familiar burn of the alcohol helping to dissolve any lingering feelings of apprehension.

Despite the passage of time and the years spent apart, it feels as though no time has passed at all. You find yourself effortlessly connecting with Jaeyun, discovering new facets of his personality with each shared anecdote and heartfelt confession. You wonder if you would have gotten along this well in secondary school.

"Is this you back for good then or?" you ask, the wine buzz kicking into your system enough to make you lean forward, resting your chin on your hand as you gaze at him with an undercurrent of longing.

Jaeyun's expression softens, his eyes never meeting yours but they shine with a hint of something you cannot put your finger on. "I'm actually going to Malta the day after tomorrow. This was just a flying visit," he replies, his tone tinged with a sense of wistfulness.

The news comes as bittersweet to you because just as you had Jaeyun within reach, he is also leaving you just as quickly. But you’re also envious that while you have to get up early and represent people in a boardroom who only see value in money and nothing else, he is galavanting to another dream destination.

"Ugh, I am so jealous!" you proclaim, unable to hide the playful pout that forms on your lips. Your declaration elicits a hearty laugh from Jaeyun, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he shakes his head, seemingly amused by the idea of someone successful like you being envious of him.

Because little do you know, that behind the facade of excitement of his adventures lies a loneliness he's kept hidden for years. He couch surfs, has little money to his name, and lacks solid friends to call in times of need. He hasn’t even seen his family in years, missing out on cherished moments like Christmas and birthdays. Despite the allure of adventure and freedom, his heart aches for companionship, for someone to share his experiences with.

As if a lightbulb goes off atop his head, he bites his lip and begins to speak. “You could co-”

“Sorry guys, we actually need this table for a last-minute reservation, could you sit at the bar until a free table is available?” The interruption from your waiter cuts off Jaeyun before he can finish his sentence, leaving him momentarily stunned.

You glance at your phone and smile, "It’s getting late anyway so we should go. Thank you though," you respond politely, masking any disappointment you might feel.

Jaeyun nods in agreement, thanking the waiter once again before standing up. He holds out his hand for you to take as you rise from your chair, an action that sends butterflies fluttering in your stomach. It’s not the gesture itself but the way he extended his hand without thinking about it.

Taking Jaeyun’s hand, you stand up, careful not to bump into anything as you step out from behind the table. Together, you retreat outside, the cool night air hitting your alcohol-flushed faces, a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the crowded restaurant. The sensation brings a sense of relief, washing away the residual tension from the interrupted conversation.

Jaeyun notices the icy air, but instead of embracing it, his gaze falls on you, and he can't help but notice how your thin blouse must be providing little protection against the chill. Swiftly, he takes off his jacket and drapes it around your shoulders, adjusting it with care to ensure you're snug and warm.

You're taken aback by his offer, feeling a rush of gratitude and warmth flood through you at his thoughtful gesture. "Thank you," you say softly, a smile touching your lips as you pull the jacket tighter around you.

He returns your smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine affection. “Let me walk you home?” he offers, his tone gentle yet insistent.

You hesitate for a moment, trying to save him the inconvenience, but he's not fooled. Jaeyun knows the dangers of a woman walking alone at night, and while he trusts your ability to handle yourself, he wouldn't feel right if he left you and something did happen. Plus, deep down, he relishes the opportunity to spend as much time with you as possible.

Touched by his concern, you look up at him and offer a small smile. "I only live down the road, I'll be fine," you assure him, though the underlying appreciation in your voice is evident.

Jaeyun shakes his head with determination, a glint of resolve in his eyes. "I insist," he says firmly, reaching for your hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I won't take no for an answer."

His sincerity and insistence warm your heart, and you find yourself relenting, knowing that his company will make the short walk home all the more enjoyable. With a grateful nod, you lead the way, feeling a sense of comfort and safety in his presence as you navigate the dimly lit streets together.

You really do only live about 10 minutes away, so the walk is quick by usual standards. Yet, tonight, you find yourself taking your time, savouring each step as if seeing the world through a new lens. Perhaps it's the lingering effects of the wine, or maybe it's the comforting presence of Jaeyun's hand in yours, but suddenly, the world feels lighter and fresher than it did just this morning.

As you stroll through the streets, you notice the ebb and flow of life around you. People are walking into bars, some are finishing up for the day, and others are simply enjoying a leisurely evening stroll. The streets hum with a busy yet serene energy, a unique blend of activity and tranquillity that can only be found when there's no rush to get from A to B.

Reaching your apartment building, you slow your pace, allowing yourself to take in the familiar surroundings with newfound appreciation. The soft glow of the streetlights casts a warm ambience over the building's facade, while the gentle hum of the city envelops you both.

You pause in front of the entrance, turning to Jaeyun with a smile. "This is me," you say, gesturing with the hand clasped in his, pulling him out of whatever thoughts have plagued him this whole journey.

While you were admiring your hometown, Jaeyun was overcome with thoughts that, once you reach your flat, this could be the last time he sees you again. He doesn’t want to come across as greedy for your time or clingy considering this is the first time you’ve both interacted in ten years, but he had so much fun that he doesn’t want it to end here.

Luckily for him, you have the same thoughts even if you aren’t projecting them in your manner the same way he is. “Would you like to come up?”

Your invitation hangs in the air, laden with the unspoken hope of spending just a little more time in each other’s company or maybe something else. Jaeyun's heart skips a beat as he meets your gaze, seeing a glimmer of anticipation reflected in your eyes. He hesitates for only a moment, the weight of his own desires battling against his fear of overstepping.

But in the end, the pull of your company proves too strong to resist. With a soft smile, Jaeyun nods, his voice barely above a whisper. "If that’s okay, I would love to."

The thing about you both is that you’re seeking companionship in one another while also oblivious that the other feels the same way. You aren’t noticing how Jaeyun subtly prolonged the walk, pulling you back a few times as if reluctant to let the evening end. And he certainly didn’t notice the hopeful glint in your eyes as you asked him for another bout of his time, knowing what this could lead to.

As you both step into the building and make your way up the stairs to your apartment, there's a quiet anticipation between you, a sense of possibility tinged with the thrill of the unknown. Each step brings you closer together, the space between you filled with unspoken thoughts and unvoiced desires.

As you unlock the door and step inside, the warmth of your home envelops you, a comforting embrace that welcomes Jaeyun into your world.

You are also very glad that you had that anxiety-induced cleanathon.

Jaeyun wipes his feet on your doormat before heading inside, looking around at your quaint yet busy home. “Your flat is nice. Homely.”

“I’m either here or the office so…” you explain, taking your shoes and his jacket off, discarding them on their appropriate stands.

Since you spend a lot of evenings in your office, which is sterile and minimalistic, you wanted the opposite tone for your house. You filled it with knick-knacks and plants, every available surface adorned with shelves or posters, while the warm orange paint added a cosy glow to the environment. This was your sanctuary and you couldn’t love it any more.

You wonder if you would love it so much if your office wasn’t your only other option of residence.

You open the refrigerator and peep at the beverages you have on hand. "Do you want a beer, wine, or I can make a coffee?” You offer, grinning and looking at Jaeyun.

“Beer sounds good, thank you,” Jaeyun replies, his attention drifting towards one of your paintings that hangs just beside a free-standing bookshelf filled with your favourite romance and fantasy books.

You don’t get the chance to read as often as you would like, but when you do, it has to be filled with a romance that is so out of reach that you can convince yourself that it would never happen to you anyway. If it’s too realistic, you start to feel a little burdened at the lack of love you receive from a partner.

Grabbing a beer for him and a glass of white for yourself, you make your way over to him, extending your hand as you offer him the ice-cold drink. He accepts it with an appreciative nod and suddenly, his eyes dart over to your University degrees, each one showcasing your incredible knowledge and talent. You always ended up top of your class with first honours, a testament to your hard work.

“You really made something of yourself, Y/N. It’s incredible.” Jaeyun says softly, clinking your glass with his bottle.

“Eh, it’s all amazing and then you’re suddenly working crazy hours with not so much as a thank you,” you shrug, voice bitter as you think about all the times your dedication to your clients goes by unnoticed. You don’t do it for the acknowledgment, however, when your colleagues are getting praise for doing the bare minimum, it starts to nag at you.

Turning to you, he tilts his head, “Do you hate it?”

Do you? That’s the big question. Maybe if you had stuck to immigration law like you wanted and weren’t swayed towards corporate all because your University advisor had told you ‘It’s what is best for someone of your calibre’ then maybe, just maybe, you would be content. You aren’t being fulfilled the way you hoped you would.

“I don’t think I hate the work as much as I hate the people. They are soulless, money-hungry, misogynistic pigs with no manners,” you say spitefully, the anger bubbling inside you evident in the fire that flashes in your eyes. As much as the job might not be totally fulfilling, you think you would enjoy it more if the men in your office or those you represent had even a shred of respect for you.

Your shoulders tense, the frustration threatening to overwhelm you, but as you hear Jaeyun’s subtle laughter, you whip your head around and knit your brows together. “What?” you demand, your tone sharp with irritation. There was nothing funny in your statement, so you're finding it rather difficult to understand the chuckle that is flooding your ear.

“No, no, I’m not laughing at your struggles,” he says softly, sensing your manner change to slightly standoffish. “It’s just…you haven’t changed. You’re still passionate and driven. Just like the girl I fell in--”

He stops himself abruptly, the words dying on his lips as he realises what he was about to say. Mentally kicking himself for almost letting slip, not once, but twice tonight, he trails off into an awkward silence, the unspoken words hanging heavily between you.

But you can’t let it slide a second time. If you’re going to talk about it, now is as good a time as any.

You inhale deeply, the air heavy as you gather your courage to broach the difficult conversation. It’s not one you particularly want to have, but you know it's necessary nonetheless. Steadying yourself, you meet Jaeyun's gaze with determination, steeling yourself for what's to come.

“Jaeyun, when you wrote that you thought you loved me in that letter, was it true?”

His initial shake of the head sends a pang of disappointment through you, but before you can fully process it, he continues, his voice carrying a weight of sincerity. He places his beer on the unit beside him and takes a step forward, his expression earnest.

“No,” he begins, and for a moment, you brace yourself for the finality of his words. But then he surprises you, his next words washing over you like a wave of relief and warmth. “I didn’t think I loved you, I knew it. I just didn’t want to come across as weird or pathetic.”

His honesty leaves you momentarily speechless, your heart racing as you take in the depth of his confession. And as he reaches out, gently taking the wine from your slightly trembling hands and setting it aside, your breath catches in your throat.

With both his hands cradling your face, you find yourself drawn into his gaze, the intensity of his eyes locking with yours. In that moment, time seems to stand still, the world around you fading into the background as you lose yourself in the connection between you.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, I really am,” Jaeyun admits, his voice laced with regret as he pours out his heart to you. His eyes close for a moment, as if savouring the sensation of your face under his fingertips, the soft beating of your heart a comforting rhythm in the silence between you.

“Adult me hates teenage me for not jumping on the chance to tell you how beautiful and awe-inspiring I thought you were, that I still think you are,” he continues, his words filled with raw honesty. “I was scared because you were so out of my league that I felt ridiculous for even thinking you could love me back. I fucking regret it all because even though we never spoke, I knew I wanted to be with someone as brilliant and wonderful as you. I tried so hard to find someone like you over the years and yet not one person ever compared, because there is only one you, Y/N. And I hate that you weren’t mine for even a minute.”

You have no words to say and it agitates you because here was Jaeyun, telling you how he felt and you couldn’t even give him an ounce of assurance that you would have been his if he had just asked. Your feelings back then were not as intense as his but they were real all the same. No, you didn’t love him but you wonder if you could have.

Jaeyun leans in, resting his forehead against yours, nudging your nose with an affectionate, almost playful tenderness. His warm, alcohol-tinged breath washes over your face, causing you to close your eyes along with him, immersing yourself in the intimate moment passing between you both.

“I don’t want to make the same mistake, Y/N. I can’t.”

His words hang in the air, laden with meaning and urgency. Before you can fully process them, he kisses you. It's a kiss so tender, so full of reverence, it feels as if you were a delicate rose being presented to his most cherished person.

Despite the sincerity and fondness you feel through the gentle pressure of his lips, a wave of uncertainty washes over you. He is leaving for Malta in less than 48 hours, and the thought of the impending separation threatens to overshadow the moment of intimacy you share.

But in this moment, with Jaeyun's arms wrapped around you and his lips against yours, all thoughts of the future fade away. You're consumed by the warmth of his embrace, the sweetness of his kiss, and the undeniable chemistry that ignites between you.

You know there are risks involved, that giving yourself to him could lead to heartache when he inevitably leaves. But this might be the only chance to embrace him, to have him as your own, even for a moment, just as he had wanted all those years ago. Deep down, you know that you could live to regret not taking this chance, the same way he regrets not confessing to you in fourth year.

So you let your inhibitions go, allowing yourself to be swept away by the intensity of the moment. His tongue swipes over your lips, a soft purr escaping him as he seeks to taste more than just your cherry-tinted lip balm. You can't help but surrender to the intoxicating pull of desire.

He pushes you gently against the wall by your hips, his lips never leaving yours. His senses are overwhelmed by you in every way possible: the taste of you on his tongue, your perfume drifting into his nose, the feel of your body pressing against his, and the soft echoes of your moans filling his ears. He loves it all so much that he thinks he could get addicted to it.

As Jaeyun deepens the kiss, your hands instinctively find their way to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. Each touch, each caress, feels electrifying, sparking a fervour that neither of you can ignore. The taste of him, mingled with the remnants of his drink, is intoxicating, making your heart race faster with every passing second.

Jaeyun’s hands wander from your hips, tracing the curves of your waist and back, committing the feel of you to memory. He pulls you closer, erasing any remaining space between you, the heat of his body seeping into yours. Your breaths come faster, mingling with his in the small, shared space between your mouths.

Breaking the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours once more, both of you breathing heavily. His eyes search yours, filled with an intensity that makes your knees weak. “Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion, “I’ve wanted you for so long, even when I thought I would never see you again, I thought about you.”

“Yeah?” you ask breathlessly, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft strands.

Nodding, Jaeyun’s features shift, his gaze darkening with a hunger that makes your pulse quicken. He kneels before you, his hands moving with deliberate slowness as he finds the zip at the back of your skirt. His fingers work the zipper down, the sound of it seeming loud in the charged silence of the room.

His eyes never leave yours as he sinks down, the skirt slipping down your legs to pool at your feet, leaving you in your white panties. The vulnerability of the moment sends a shiver down your spine, but Jaeyun's adoring gaze and gentle touch reassure you.

Jaeyun places his hands on your hips, his thumbs brushing over your skin in soothing circles. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice filled with awe as he looks up at you from his kneeling position. His eyes trace the lines of your body, drinking in the sight of you.

The raw adoration in his gaze ignites a fire within you, and you feel a rush of emotions you can barely contain. “Jaeyun,” you breathe, your hands resting on his shoulders for balance as you steady yourself against the overwhelming surge of feelings.

His hands move from your hips to your thighs, his touch light but firm as he traces the contours of your legs. The anticipation builds with each gentle caress, your skin tingling under his fingertips. When he finally leans in, pressing a tender kiss just above the waistband of your panties, a soft gasp escapes your lips.

His touch is reverent, each movement deliberate and full of intent. He hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties, looking up at you for permission. You nod, your breath hitching as he slowly slides them down, his eyes locked on yours the entire time.

Jaeyun’s mind races as he sees you in this vulnerable state, yet he is the one who feels exposed. His feelings are pouring out of him like never before, and it’s all down to the fact that you bring that side out of him. No 16 year old should have had the emotional intelligence to decipher a crush from love, yet with you as his focus on the subject, he knew exactly what it was. While his friends were goofing off with people at parties and at the bike rack at school in a fleeting fling, he was wondering how he could make you his.

Looking at your exposed heat, he places a soft, lingering kiss just above your clit, making you jolt. You hadn’t expected him to find it so quickly, yet, it was as easy for him to find as a horse in a cow farm, like he had been doing this for years with you.

Once he feels your fingers threading through his hair, massaging his scalp, he takes it as the go-ahead to dive in deeper and explore you in ways he only imagined he could. Placing your left leg over his right shoulder and keeping his grip on your thigh for balance, he dips his tongue into your folds, moving in slow but strong strokes, lapping your taste up in his mouth. If your lips had him intoxicated, your pussy had him obsessed.

You throw your head against the wall and buck your hips up to open yourself up further to him, allowing him the privilege to get lost between your thighs and drink you up like a man deprived of cold water on a hot day. He’s so eager to please you that you can sense how much he is enjoying this, maybe even more than you are.

Jaeyun’s tongue swirls at the entrance of your core before he pushes in, tracing the bumps of your wall as he explores your pretty pussy and its tightness; he can only imagine what his cock will feel like clamped inside you, if you grant him the honour to do so.

One thing you crushed on Jaeyun the most over in secondary school was his nose - the prominent feature stood out against everything else and you couldn’t help but marvel at it from time to time. Big noses have been your weakness since your hormones started to kick in and Jaeyun’s was perfect. You know this for a fact now as it brushes on your clit as he slurps and sucks up your cunt.

You revel in the sensation, how his enthusiastic and skilled mouth shivers down your spine. It's a testament to his attention to detail, his dedication to your pleasure evident in every movement, every touch.

His hands paw at your thighs as he loses himself in worshipping your mound. It’s tang on his taste buds only driving him further into madness - he can’t believe how lucky he is in this moment, so much so that he is grinning like a Cheshire cat as he continues to devour you.

“Jaeyun-” you breathe out sharply, the air in your chest leaving your body as he licks fast stipes up to your clit, focusing his attention where he knows you want it most. It is truly remarkable how well he knows you despite only knowing you from afar until now.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he mumbles into your cunt, burying his face into you as he laps up the juices that are leaking from your hole, “I’m here to please you, please let me.” Jaeyun doesn’t mean for it to come off as begging but he is so desperate for you he can't help it; and when your thighs tense slightly at his words, he thinks perhaps you want him to plead with you.

You’re so used to being around men who think that they own you, that are superior to you, that as Jaeyun asks you to let him pleasure you, it's a refreshing change. His words, muffled against your wetness, carry a genuine desire to fulfil your every desire. You can feel the sincerity in his actions, the earnestness in his plea.

“I want you to make me cum, please, Jaeyun. I need it so bad,” you whisper into the hot atmosphere that surrounds you both. You’re close and he can sense it too and right now, that is all you care about. You need to feel that satisfaction rush over you, your body is aching for it because it knows Jaeyun can bring you to that peak.

Whimpering below you, Jaeyun loses all sense of control and picks up his pace, his fingers now circling your entrance before slipping into you, scissoring you open in a mix of gentleness and roughness. He loves the idea of being able to touch you like this and make you release over his hand and tongue.

Nibbling at your clit is the final straw and you feel that tightness in your stomach and clench in your pussy as you cry out, cumming all over his face. The whites of your eyes come to the forefront as your entire body rolls and the wave of your climax consumes you like a tsunami. The grip you have on his hair tightens and you hold him in place, your body riding his face as his nose, tongue, and fingers work in tandem with you to help you ride out your high.

You don’t think you’ve cum so hard from just oral, these types of experiences being between you and your toys. Jaeyun is a man above the rest and you can’t wait to have more of him.

As he gently guides your leg back to the ground, his hands steady you as you tremble in the aftermath of pleasure. His thoughts wander, contemplating the possibility of lingering between your thighs for just a few more precious moments, coaxing yet another orgasm from your willing body.

For Jaeyun, the idea of bringing you to such heights of ecstasy is not just a source of pride but pure joy. The thought of surrendering himself completely to your pleasure fills him with a sense of fulfilment like nothing else. In a world where some might find embarrassment, he finds only bliss in the act of surrendering to his woman, to you.

Looking down at him, his eyes locking with yours past your heaving chest, you moan quietly at the sight of him; his hair dishevelled thanks to your hands, your juices over his face and lips which he wipes his fat tongue along to collect, and his eyes filled with pure adoration and lust.

You’re never going to be able to let him go.

Tracing a path of tender kisses along your body, his lips remain in constant contact with your skin, leaving a trail of warmth and sensation in their wake. With each gentle press of his lips, he conveys his adoration and reverence for every inch of you. It's a silent yet powerful declaration of his desire to explore and worship every part of your being.

Once he reaches your neck, he stops, nibbling softly at your nape. "God, you taste so good," he murmurs against your skin, his breath warm against your neck. "I could spend forever right here, just worshipping you."

His words send a shiver down your spine, a delicious anticipation building within you at the thought of what's to come. You tilt your head slightly, granting him better access, silently urging him to continue his actions.

"I could lose myself in you," he continues, his voice husky with desire. "Every touch, every kiss, I want to claim every part of you for myself, even just for tonight.”

His honesty pangs in your chest because what if it is just for tonight? The probability of that is high and yet you don’t dare think about it, the revelation too upsetting for you to consider. So you push it down, committing yourself to enjoy this, regardless of the what-ifs. Having him now is all that matters and you’re going to relish in it.

Grabbing his t-shirt, you yank it off his body and kiss him desperately, your arms finding home around his neck as you waltz him to your bedroom, thankful for your familiarity with your apartment as you weave around coffee tables and decorative baskets.

As you reach the bedroom, a primal need surges between you, an urgency and determination unlike anything you've experienced before. With a sense of raw desire, you turn him around and push him onto the bed, your actions driven by an irresistible force that neither of you can deny.

Straddling him, you see his face light up in excitement and glee as you initiate the next move. Jaeyun loves it when his eagerness is reciprocated and by the way your thighs are squeezing each of his sides and your hands are cradling his face as you kiss him messily, he feels so wanted at this moment.

His hands eagerly grasp at your blouse, urgency guiding his movements as he tears it open and discards it aside. With unbridled desire, he buries his face into your chest, kissing and nibbling at the exposed flesh above your bra. Fingers knead and lift your tits, enhancing the sensation as he revels in the intimate contact between skin and skin.

The heat between you intensifies and Jaeyun's ardour only grows stronger. His lips trail from your chest to your neck, peppering kisses along the sensitive skin, igniting a flurry of sensations that ripple through your body.

With a skilful touch, his hands explore the curves of your body, tracing the contours with a fervent hunger. Fingers dance over the fabric of your bra, teasingly tracing the edges before deftly unhooking it, revealing your breasts in all their glory.

“You’re a fucking dream, Sweetheart,” he confesses, knowing that you have, in fact, clouded his dreams some nights. “You always have been.”

Grabbing his chin gently, you lift his eyes to meet yours and smile fondly, showcasing your affection through your sparkling pupils. “You’re so pretty, Jaeyun,” you utter quietly as each syllable matches the thumping in his chest.

Jaeyun flushes red and smiles brightly, like you’ve just called him a good boy and he’s your golden retriever. What you don’t expect is for him to open his mouth just wide enough to poke his tongue out, asking for something.

It takes a moment for you to grasp his silent request, but once you do, your hold on his chin transitions to his jaw, gently urging it wider as you oblige, softly spitting into his waiting mouth. A soft whimper escapes his throat as his eyes flutter closed, savouring the intimate exchange with an fervour.

Emboldened by the connection between you, you lean in closer, your lips brushing against his in a silent promise of more to come. His response is immediate, a soft moan escaping his lips as he eagerly presses himself against you, seeking to deepen the connection between your bodies.

You feel his clothed cock against your naked heat and suddenly the room is filled with explicit moans, both of you dry-humping one another like horny teens. It’s electric and you both want each other more than any destination or University degree, it feels like you’ve found your hearts true desires in the confines of this bedroom.

“Let me have you,” His plea resonates in the air, heavy with longing and urgency, as his fingertips caress every contour of your exposed skin, eliciting a cascade of goosebumps in their wake. "Please, Y/N," he groans, his voice thick with desire, the intensity of his gaze locking with yours in an unspoken plea for surrender.

“If you let me have you,” you whisper into his mouth, ghosting your lips above his,

“Baby, you’ve had me for a lifetime.”

His response is without a moment of silence, followed by a deep kiss that ignites a fire within you both, drawing you into a passionate embrace. With a gentle yet possessive grip, he pulls you closer, his hands trailing down to caress the curves of your ass. The sharp sound of his gentle slaps mingles with your moans, echoing off the walls as pleasure courses through your veins.

As the heat between you reaches its peak, you break the kiss with a soft gasp, a mischievous glint in your eyes. With a playful smirk, you slide your hands down to the waistband of his trousers, fingers deftly undoing the buttons as you tease him with each deliberate movement.

Jaeyun watches you with a mix of anticipation and desire, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he eagerly awaits your next move. You climb off him for a moment as you peel his trousers and boxers down his legs, revealing his hardened length, aching for your touch. His arousal is evident and his cock is thick and twitching with its need to be buried inside of you.

Discarding the trousers aside, you meet his gaze with a wicked grin, your desire mirroring his as you hover above him. Your eyes sparkle playfully as you slink forward, your lips caress his teasingly, then trail kisses down his chest, creating a path of fire in your wake. Jaeyun's breath hitches as he watches you with rapt attention; his anticipation grows with every second.

Your fingertips follow enticingly down his thighs as you approach his waist, sending shivers of expectation coursing through his body. You gently but firmly guide his legs apart so that you can lower yourself between them for better access.

Grinning slyly, you approach him closely, your breath ghosting over his skin as you torment him with every instant that passes. Then you take him quickly into your mouth and engulf him with a hunger that leaves him panting for air.

Jaeyun surrenders to the thrilling sensation as waves of pleasure rush over him; his hands tangling in your hair as he leads you, lost in the depths of bliss. In this moment, there is nothing but the two of you, bound together by a passion that knows no bounds.

However, as good as your mouth feels, and fuck does it feel good, Jaeyun needs to be enveloped by your warm walls, he craves it like an addiction, and he genuinely thinks that once he gets a taste of you wrapped around him, he might just have to check himself into pussy anonymous.

Using his grip on your hair, he yanks you up off of him, causing confusion to overcome your expression. “Baby, if I’m not fucking you in the next 3 seconds, I might just die,” he laughs but he is serious, you can tell he is by how he’s already grasping his cock with his freehand and holding it in position for you to sink onto it.

So that is exactly what you do. You straddle him one more, lining him up at your entrance before slowly easing your way onto him. With each inch, you take your time, allowing yourself to adjust to his size, the sensation of him filling you completely overwhelming your senses. Jaeyun's hands grip your hips tightly, guiding you as you slowly sink down onto him, his breath catching in his throat as you finally envelop him completely.

Due to his thickness, you take your time to adjust to his size, grinding on him to open you up a bit more, not that any of you mind because as you do so, the tip of his dick is brushing inside you blissfully.

"You're taking me so well, beautiful," Jaeyun says, his voice hoarse with need, his hands tracing patterns of heat over your skin. "I was made for you.”

You begin to ride him while moaning gently beneath your breath. At first, your motions are shallow as you slowly elevate your hips. Each motion causes a surge of pleasure to course through your body, sparking a fire that grows more intense with each passing second.

Jaeyun's hands are firmly grasping your hips, directing you as you find your rhythm. His own groans blend with yours to create a symphony of want. Your walls are squeezing his thick cock so tight that each time he lifts you higher, the bell of his cock snags on your entrance, trapping him inside.

“You’re bouncing on my cock so well, Y/N,” he compliments as he kisses you gently on your bouncing tit. His heavy breath mists over your heart and it clenches along with your core. He’s so beautiful and adoring that he has ruined every other man for you.

As the ecstasy consumes both of you, Jaeyun's control starts unravelling and his primitive impulses begin to take over as he loses himself in the intensity of the moment. He jackhammers himself further into you with each thrust and he lets out a howl, completely losing all control of his movements. His thrusts become more frantic and more desperate as he hears your cries of pleasure.

The rhythm of your fucking frenzy transforms into a symphony of desire, the sound of his hips meeting yours echoing off the walls as he pounds into you with unrestrained passion. Each thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure rippling through your body, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion.

You cling to him desperately, lost in the overwhelming intensity as you surrender yourself completely to the pleasure that consumes you. With each powerful buck of his hips, you feel yourself hurtling towards the brink, the sensation building to a fever pitch as you both race towards the climax that awaits.

"F-Fuck, Jaeyun!" you groan out, your voice a mixture of pleasure and desperation as you hug his head between your cleavage, unable to contain the overwhelming sensation coursing through your body.

Jaeyun is completely lost in the moment, his focus solely on the incredible feeling of being enveloped by you. He bites down harshly on one of your breasts, leaving a bruise as a mark of his passion, eliciting a cry of pleasure mixed with a hint of pain from you.

Taking control, Jaeyun’s only objective now is to feel you cumming on his cock, so he picks up the pace, bringing your body down to lie on top of him as he sinks into your mattress. Using his legs as anchors, he thrusts into you with an otherworldly speed, each movement driving you closer to the edge.

“Come on, Sweetheart, cum all over me,” he grits out, all of his focus on his hips.

The slapping of your skin and how his tip is puncturing your cervix is enough to tumble you over, a roar leaving your mouth as you come undone just as he wanted. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Jaeyun!” You can’t form coherent sentences because to put it plainly, the dick is too good. It’s rendered you dumb and the only thoughts in your mind are; Jaeyun, cock, feels good, cumming.

Smiling brightly beneath you, Jaeyun marvels at your face as you let the pleasure take over. Your eyes are screwed shut and your mouth is open wide with short breaths escaping, your chest is panting against his and he can feel your heart race against his.

“That’s it, baby. God, you’re so fucking beautiful.” Jaeyun whispers earnestly.

As you start to relax into the aftermath of your second orgasm of the night, he picks up the pace again, now content to seek his own release. Clawing down your back, he holds your hips still and batters into your sensitive and spent pussy, knowing that the beating it just took must have left you sore, so he needs to cum quickly.

You aid him in his quest for release, showering him with kisses across his chest, neck, and face, your droopy eyes still gleaming with adoration despite the ache that lingers within you. "Jaeyun, you're fucking me so good," you whisper gently into his ear, nibbling at his lobe in a gesture of encouragement that sends a jolt of electricity coursing through him, his length throbbing inside of you in response.

Empowered by your words, Jaeyun's rhythm becomes even more intense, his movements propelled by an innate urge to reach his climax, which between your tight cunt and your seductive words, it doesn’t take him long.

"I'm cumming, fuck, I'm cumming, Baby," Jaeyun mewls, his voice strained with desperation as he tries to push you off of him, but you hold him firmly in place, unwilling to let him escape the imminent release.

With a whispered plea, you encourage him to let go completely, to surrender to the intoxicating pleasure that courses through both of you. "Cum inside me, Jaeyun. Let me feel you," you urge, your voice filled with lust and longing.

He shakes his head and tries to roll over to pull out, yet you remain headstrong and unyielding to his attempts of escape. “I have the implant, Jaeyun, you can cum in me as much as you want.”

The lawyer in you is furious that you’re letting him bust a nut inside of you due to your irresponsibility, but the happy and content you is relishing in the fact that any second, you’re going to be filled with Sim Jaeyun’s seed.

Looking deep into your eyes, he sees you’re serious and huffs out a laugh of joy. It's not that he didn't want to experience the ecstasy of releasing inside you - ask the stars, he did - but he also understands the importance of being responsible.

However, as you resume your rhythm, bouncing on his cock and firmly holding him down by his chest, any lingering hesitation evaporates. He becomes consumed by the overwhelming pleasure, his primal instincts driving him to chase his climax with an intensity that matches yours.

“Cum for me, Jaeyun, please,” you beg, wanting nothing more at this moment.

Coaxed by your words and the overwhelming pleasure coursing through him, Jaeyun succumbs to the irresistible urge to release deep inside you. With one final, powerful thrust, he empties himself into you, his hips stilling as he rides out the waves of his high.

"Fuck, Baby, fuck I'm cumming, don't stop."

The sounds that escape his lips are a symphony of pleasure, soft yet needy, low but whiney, a perfect embodiment of every fantasy you've ever entertained. As you massage his chest and shoulders, soothing him down from his orgasm, his features are painted with bliss and love, a smile mirroring your own as he gazes at you with adoration.

"You're amazing, truly out of this world, Y/N L/N," Jaeyun huffs out, his voice filled with reverence and admiration.

Gently moving you off him, he guides your head to the pillow before hovering over you, peppering your lips with affectionate kisses. Finally, he settles on top of you, his head resting against your chest, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat calming him instantly.

Resting his chin in the valley between your breasts, Jaeyun's touch is gentle as he reaches up, tenderly tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. There's a glimmer of something in his eyes, a silent contemplation that leaves you wondering what he's about to say next.

For a fleeting moment, you fear he might choose to end the encounter, bidding you farewell with a polite smile and a promise to call. But to your surprise, he does the opposite.

"Come with me, Y/N," he says, his voice soft yet filled with determination.

Stunned, you feel your chest tighten as you replay his words in your mind, each repetition only adding to the disbelief that swirls within you. There is no way he is asking you this when this is the first time you’ve really spoken to one another. He might as well be asking a blind date he’s just met to leave with him.

"What?" you manage to utter, blinking at him in shock.

For Jaeyun, however, there's no hesitation. In his heart, nothing has ever felt more right. He's harboured feelings for you for so long that now, with you in his arms, he's determined not to let you slip away so easily, even if that means proposing a notion that can be deemed outlandish.

"To Malta, to everywhere you want to go," he continues, his voice filled with sincerity and a touch of vulnerability. "Come with me."

You stay silent, nervously biting your lip, there isn’t much you can say, your inner battle between your head and your heart make it difficult to hear anything clearly.

Noticing your silence, he offers you a gentle smile and grabs one of your hands, kissing your palm gently. “Y/N, you’re miserable here, I can feel it. You’ve practically said it yourself,” he argues with you even if he cannot hear your turmoil, “Think about it; you come with me, experience everything you’ve ever wanted, study Immigration Law at one of those Open Universities if you want, or do literally anything else that makes you happy.”

You shake your head. "I'm not miserable, Jaeyun."

“Then tell me you’re happy.”

Silence ensues. A profound quietness fills the space because...you can't. You can't fabricate happiness. Are you content with your life? Undoubtedly. But true happiness eludes you. Until he posed that question, until you stood eye to eye with him, you had mistaken contentment for fulfilment, believing that your family and friends held the key to your happiness, that working hard to get to the top of your law firm was all you could want. But you aren't truly happy.

“Y/N, I came here for you,” he admits, his voice just above a whisper.

“What do you mean?” you ask, confusion palpable in your manner.

“I was supposed to be leaving the UK straight to Malta. I had my bags packed and ready to go and then I got your message on Instagram. Before I could even reply, I was changing my flight to come home to see you. I just…I couldn’t let the chance of seeing you pass me by,” his voice quivers with raw emotion as he speaks, his grasp on your hand tightening, “Do you know how many times I’ve hovered over that stupid send button, desperate to reach out but was too scared to? When you got that letter and messaged me about it, I knew this was my only shot and I couldn’t waste it.”

Jaeyun, deep down, is still the scared teenage boy who wrote you that letter. You can see him fighting himself, terrified that as he pours his heart out to you that it’ll be a disaster, but he has spent so long contemplating what life could have been had he just plucked up the courage that right now, he’s powering through his insecurities to try and reach your heart.

You sit up, intertwining his fingers in yours as a form of reassurance. “Did you come here to see if I would come with you?” you query, the tone of your voice light despite the heaviness of the subject.

"No, I came here because I wanted to see you and...to see if I could find some closure for teenage me," Jaeyun begins, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your hand. The nakedness of both of you both being and soul amplifies the vulnerability that envelops you. "But I can't bear the thought of losing you again."

"You don't really know me, Jaeyun," you counter, not with hostility but with a sense of realism.

How could he be so sure he wants you by his side when he knows you as far as he could throw you? Sure, you have both connected in a way you didn’t know was possible in the past 7 hours, and you have in some way known one another for years, but you don’t know each other. Not enough to leave the country with him…right?

With a sigh, Jaeyun gently strokes your hair, his gaze softening with affection. "I do know you, Y/N. I see you for everything you are, I always have," he insists, his voice now infused with unwavering determination. “I don’t know if I love you the same way I did ten years ago, we’re both different people. But I want the chance to find out, I want the chance to fall in love with you as you are right now.”

You stare into his eyes, contemplating your future. You could stay here and go about your life as is, sitting in a swimming pool of ‘what could have been’, forced to see bosses who could never give you the time of day, or you could follow Jaeyun, explore the world and let your hair down, meet new people and enjoy everything that life is supposed to be. Pragmatically, you have enough savings to get you by and worst case, you work shitty jobs in beautiful cities.

There is nothing holding you back except yourself.

With a beaming smile, you nod a silent promise to him. “Can we go to Venice?”

Jaeyun's eyes widen in surprise at your request, a flicker of disbelief dancing in their depths. But as he takes in the earnestness in your gaze, the longing for adventure and new beginnings, his heart swells with a profound sense of gratitude.

"Venice, huh?" he echoes, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Let's do it.”

The words hang between you, laden with the promise of excitement and possibility. You leap forward and kiss him, pushing his back onto the mattress once again, enjoying the moment with him, knowing it’s not the end but the beginning of future you.

perm taglist: @immortalvee @snoopypupp @sunpov @heeseungspookie @strawberrysavi @monstanctiny21 @diorsyun @heexzbae @pockettwinzz @yzzyhee @baekhyunstruly @zeeloveshee @haechonly @berryblog @emi-en @no-mannerism @jaehoonii @notevenheretbh1 @iikeustar @shawnyle

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bbsantc · 8 months ago

Text

Completely and utterly beautiful. Best enhypen fic I’ve ever read❤️‍🩹

fast forward - pjs

pairing. jay x fem!reader

synopsis. After yet another romantic disappointment in the form of one Jake Sim, you go to the well you’ve always believed to grant wishes and ask for your one and true love to appear. That night, you go to sleep in your bed but wake up in a strange house. When you head downstairs, you find a man washing the dishes and telling you your favorite meal is waiting on the table for you. You’ve spent hours glaring at the back of that head, you could recognize it anywhere—it belongs to none other than Park Jongseong, your high school sworn enemy... and future husband, or so it seems.

genre+warnings. high school au, the type of e2l where they never really hated each other to begin with, they act like they're academic rivals even though they're not particularly academically gifted, jay has a thing about german the language, sunoo and kazuha besties, heeseung is a loser, jake and sunghoon are assholes sorry, ive liz is german, 02z get into a white-boy locker-room fight, attempts at banter etc, they're a little bit silly

word count. 26.6k

a/n. had the idea for this listening to fast forward by somi LAST SUMMER... and only wrote it this summer and only posting it now <3 i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it !!!!! jay is an absolute cutie here pls love him as much as i do.... as always let me know what u think and remember to vote for @zreamy president in the upcoming elections, shes the only one i trust to beta-read and hence to run a country <3 no it doesnt matter that shes scottish put this woman in the white house

There is only one thorn on the otherwise immaculate rose that is your life.

Every morning, you wake up feeling refreshed from eight hours of restful sleep. You go downstairs to the kitchen, a boiling cup of milky Earl Grey tea already waiting for you, and eat breakfast with your brother Jinwoo and father. Your mom dashes in, placing a kiss on your and Jinwoo’s foreheads, and on your dad’s lips, saying she’s late for work but will see you in the evening. “Have fun at school,” she bids every morning without fail. Your dad teaches Korean Literature at your school, so the three of you drive there together. He watches amusedly as you and Jinwoo bicker light-heartedly on the way there—even in the pits of his puberty, you and your brother get along like two peas in a pod. He still tells you about everything he learns at school and fills you in on the drama in his class, up-to-date with everything even though he pretends not to be interested.

You’re always one of the first to arrive at school, so you scroll through your feed or finish up some homework as you wait for your classmates to file in. Your friends circle your table and you chat about the last episode of the show you’ve been watching until the bell rings and they leave you for their assigned seat.

Class starts with your teacher handing out the math tests you took last week. “Jay and Y/N, great job, keep it up,” he says as he walks past you and the boy in front of you, and hands you your paper. Relief floods your body as you take in the bright red 82 in the top right-hand corner—not the best of the class, but enough for you to be satisfied.

Good friends, good grades—nothing extraordinary, but it’s a life you dare say any high school senior would want.

There’s just that one thing. The thorn in your side that won’t stop poking.

You glare at it as it whips around in its seat and takes a peek at the grade on your paper before you get to snatch it away from view. It only gives you three seconds to rejoice over your grade.

“Aw, Y/N. Good effort! Maybe you’ll do better next time!” Jongseong coos, holding up his test for you to see and glare even harder at. 85. Not that big of a difference, but it makes you want to punch the faux sympathetic pout off of his face.

You’re about to spit something just as petty back at him, but someone whispers your name, and you turn your head in their direction. Beside you, Jake is smiling at you as he asks what grade you got. Your attention is swiftly taken off of Jongseong, whom you don’t even notice dramatically rolling his eyes, huffing in annoyance, and turning around.

“82,” you whisper back, holding up your paper for Jake to see. His friendly, absurdly handsome smile makes your ears burn. “You?”

The corners of his lips fall down into a sad pout—the kind that makes your heart melt rather than gets on your nerves like someone else. “68,” he says. Leans in over the gap between your tables. Your heart jumps uncontrollably around your rib cage. “Do you wanna go over it together during the break? I think I need some help.”

One-on-one time with Jake Sim? You don’t need to be asked twice. You nod silently, almost mesmerized by Jake as his grin widens. He leans back in his chair. “Perfect. I’ll see you in the library, then.”

“Library, yeah,” you echo dumbly, but thankfully, your teacher tells you to all quiet down and starts the lesson.

You’re antsy all throughout the rest of your morning classes and lunch break, so nervous that you barely manage to finish your yogurt. Of course, your friends, Sunoo and Kazuha, have a field day with this, and even you can’t help but laugh along as they jump between reassuring you that it’ll be fine, slapping your shoulders with excitement and making fun of your uncharacteristic quietness.

Jake arrives at the library five minutes after you, looking around the room before he finds you at the big round table in the back of the library. Your brain is too riddled with anxiety for you to make more small talk than “Hey,” “Hey,” “How was your lunch?” “Good, yours?” “Good.” And so you just jump straight into it.

You’ve only had a couple minutes of quiet explanation on your part and heavy nodding on Jake’s when Jay appears at the entrance of the library. He spots you and Jake immediately, and without any hesitation whatsoever heads towards you and sits down at your table, right across from the two of you.

“Hey, Jay,” Jake greets in a friendly manner, but Jay only responds with a nod of his head.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he says when he notices you glaring. “I won’t bother you.”

As if he could be anything other than a bother, you think, but courteously keep to yourself. The childish rivalry you and Jongseong have got going on has no business spoiling a rare hour of alone time you get with Jake. As you go over the exercises he had the most trouble with on the test with you, your eyes often drift over to Jongseong as if to check on him—you’re cautious like he’s a spider in the corner of the room that might spring on you at any moment.

And indeed, the moment your gaze leaves him for more than a minute as you explain an intricate theorem to Jake, he’s out of sight, and panic shoots through you. Where the hell has he suddenly gone off to? you wonder, but not for long.

“There’s a much easier way to do this, really,” says a voice from behind you, and of course, it’s none other than Jongseong himself, quite literally butting his way into your tutoring session. Right between you and Jake, he bends over and rests his elbows on the table, taking Jake’s pencil from him and describing the theorem in a way that isn’t that much simpler. Your eyes shoot bullets into the side of his face while he, unbothered, explains this and that to Jake, who glances at you a couple of times but otherwise does not seem so perturbed by the sudden change of tutor. Either Jongseong doesn’t notice your glare or doesn’t care, because he doesn’t budge.

Just when they’re done with the exercise and you think you’ll get Jake to yourself again, another voice appears from behind, a much higher, girlier one. You notice the hand on Jake’s shoulder first, until slowly, your eyes drift to the face—you recognize Yunjin, head of the cheerleading squad, and she’s smiling at you, a smile that at once tries to cover and betrays her surprise at seeing you and Jake together. She doesn’t acknowledge you any more than that, gaze going back to “Jakey,” asking him if he wants to head to class together. You check the time—five minutes before the first bell rings. What do they need so much time getting to class for? It’s not like any room in this school is more than a three-minute walk away.

But Jake doesn’t even look back at you, just says “Sure!” with far too much enthusiasm for your taste as he packs his stuff. “Thanks, you two,” he says, looking at Jay first, then at you. You think his eyes linger on you for a second, but just like that, he’s gone, him and Yunjin walking side-by-side.

You watch them leave—they look good together, the cheerleading captain and the soccer team’s star. The white Vans she’s wearing have a bunch of red love hearts on them that look drawn on, and you think, Of course, Jake is the type to date someone cute, someone fun, someone who would draw on their shoes. Not someone like you, whose idea of a good Friday night is lighting up a scented candle and reading your favorite novel for the nth time. When they’ve left the library, you slump in your seat, crumpling the sheet of paper you had drawn a bunch of graphs and formulae on to make things clearer for Jake. Jay awkwardly clears his throat and finally returns to his seat, looking at you with his lips pressed in a tight line.

“Y/N?” he asks tentatively, and the sound is too much to bear, so you pack your things and head to your next class early, too. Your mind is racing with a million thoughts a minute—who is that girl to Jake, how come you’ve never seen them together before, how come he was so eager to leave with her, what was that smile she gave you about? In the fifty-five minutes of your biology class, which you uncharacteristically don’t pay any attention to, you’ve convinced yourself that they are crazy in love and that none of Jake’s actions or words towards you had ever meant anything, that you’d liked him so much you’d dreamt up the possibility of his liking you back, too.

Your next lesson starts—the smile Jake gives you as he walks into History is so bright, it dissipates any clouds hanging over your head. You do believe in male-female friendships, but despite yourself, you can’t help but think that anyone in a relationship wouldn’t give someone else such a perfect, warm smile. It just wouldn’t be right. And so, you reason with yourself that simply walking to a class together didn’t mean two people were a couple.

For an hour, you stare at the back of Jake’s head, and although you do eventually come to the more sensible conclusion that a smile may just be a smile, you also think it's unlikely that he and Yunjin would be a thing. If they were, why would they hide it? Jake is so nice, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d exaggerated his enthusiasm upon seeing her. You’re sure you still have your chances. He even says see you tomorrow when class is over and slips out of the room to go to soccer practice.

You feel like you’re walking on cloud 9 as you head from History to your next class—but when you remember that the next class is German, your mood drops significantly. Because the universe has it out for you, you and Jay are two of just ten students in your year taking German as your second foreign language option, everyone else having gone for either French, Japanese or Spanish. Your reasoning for it is that your dad has had an obsession with Germany since his year abroad in Bavaria, and twelve-year-old you had wanted to make him happy. Eighteen-year-old you regrets it slightly, but at least now your dad is ecstatic every time you tell him in German that the dinner he made was really tasty. Why Jongseong decided to take it beats you—he’s probably just insane.

But because you don’t really know anyone else in the class, and because it’s your last period of the day, you have no friends to run off with once the lesson is over, and he gets to bother you all the way from the classroom door to the staff parking lot.

You’ve barely finished bidding Auf Wiedersehen to your teacher and Jongseong is already harassing you. “So, I didn’t take you as the type to be into guys like Jake Sim.” He says Jake’s name with such disdain, like he thinks he’s so much better than him, or like he hates him. It confuses you just as much as it annoys you; Jongseong didn’t seem to have a problem with Jake earlier at the library.

“And that’s your business, because…?”

You don’t look at Jongseong, who’s quickened his pace to keep up with yours, but you can feel the smirk on his face. It’s insufferable. “Oh, it’s none of my business. I’m just surprised, is all. You guys are so… I don’t know, different.”

You scoff. “If you think I’m not good enough for someone like Jake, I’d rather you tell me straight up, Jongseong. Or actually,” you say, looking up at him with a dry smile. “Keep it to yourself and leave me alone.”

He looks offended by your words, and it only adds to your already immense annoyance—he’s the one who just insulted you, so why is he looking at you with those stupid furrowed eyebrows?

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“No, Y/N.” He grabs your wrist and makes you face him, your stomach flipping in surprise that you quickly cover up. When he releases you, you cross your arms over your chest and wait for him to speak, keeping your eyes trained on a spot behind him. “I don’t think he’s too good for you.”

This makes you look at him. You have to admit, your curiosity is piqued. Not like Jongseong to say anything even vaguely in your favor. “He’s just…” He sighs, searches for the right word. “Well, he’s just a bit of a dick, isn’t he?”

You freeze for a second. You’re so taken aback, your scoff comes out more as a laugh—Park Jongseong, king supreme of all dicks at this school, just called Jake Sim a dick?

“I’m sorry?”

He sighs again, as though you’re the unreasonable one. “He’s so… smug. A wannabe class clown and thinks he’s the shit because he’s on the soccer team. Have you seen the way he swaggers around school?”

You look at him with fake sympathy. “Jong, are you jealous?”

“Pfft. No way. I just think it’s a shame you keep going after these dudes who are not even worth your time, or whatever, so yeah…” he says, voice trailing off and looking down at his feet as he speaks. Hands in pockets and blank expression on his face, you can tell he’s trying to look cool, but the way he’s avoiding your gaze is a dead give-away. Even his ears have turned red. Jongseong is having one of those shy moments he has when he’s trying to be nice to you. Clearly, a simple act of kindness towards you is so hard for him that it radically changes the way he behaves.

Like when you were fifteen and you just couldn’t get this stupid art project right, so he stayed behind for three hours after school with you, helping you draw and paint and cut and glue.

Like when you were sixteen and your grandma just passed away, making you miss a week of school, and without a word, barely looking at you, he gave you a stack of handwritten notes of all the lessons you missed. To this day, you’re not sure how he did it—you weren’t in the same class that year.

Like when you were seventeen and Park Sunghoon rejected you in the middle of a crowded hallway. You’d run off to the girls’ bathroom to cry it out, but Jongseong quickly found you and spent the entire period cursing Sunghoon out instead of being in English, like you were both meant to be. He was uncharacteristically nice to you for a few days after that, never starting an argument for no reason or interrupting you when you spoke. When you snapped at him, telling him it only made you feel worse that he treated you differently, he smiled and told you how stupid you looked when you cried. It made you laugh more than it should’ve.

Like now, when he suddenly decides that Jake Sim is also a wrong choice for you. “Him and Sunghoon are good friends, you know that?” he says. “Birds of a feather, and all…”

So you know that Jongseong is not all bad. He has his redeeming qualities. He can even be nice sometimes, when he so wishes. But those moments are so few and far between that when he returns to his usual insufferable self, you wonder if you’d dreamt it all up. Which is why you can’t quite take him seriously right now. You roll your eyes and resume walking towards the parking lot, but of course, he continues to follow you. “Why do you even care who I go after?”

“I don’t-”

“You clearly do, otherwise you wouldn’t be bothering me like this.”

“Well, if all your attention is taken up by that douche, who am I going to go up against?”

“That’s what you’re worried about? That I stop arguing with you?” you say, disbelief clear in your voice.

“I’m offended, Y/N,” he starts, his sarcastic tone making you roll your eyes again. “That our little rivalry matters so little to you.”

“We’re not even the top students of our class, for God’s sake, we’re not fighting over anything.”

“I’ve actually got the best grades in German, thanks very much.”

“Whatever. I wouldn’t call it a rivalry so much as a mutual dislike of each other, because one of us woke up one day and decided to start going against everything the other said.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

The exit to the parking lot now appears to you like the gates of heaven. You don’t even bother replying to him, thinking that he’ll just leave you alone now that you’re here. But as you step outside, he places himself in front of you and blocks your path, arms splayed out, eyes wide like he’s just seen a ghost.

“What are you-”

“Have you done the German homework for tomorrow?”

The sudden change of subject gives you whiplash. “What? No, Miss Schumacher assigned it just now-”

“Well, given your tendency for getting the word order all wrong, I can already tell you you’re not gonna have fun with it-”

You pinch the nose of your bridge, trying to calm yourself down before you lose what’s remaining of your mind. “Jongseong, were you actually dropped on the head as a baby? Go away. My dad’s gonna be here any second.” You try to walk around him, but he steps in front of you again. You peer up at him, undisguised annoyance in your eyes. Where are your dad and brother when you need them?

“I’m just saying, you’ll probably need help with it-”

“I won’t. And if I do, I’ll just use Google. Now get out of my way,” you say, and manage to duck under one of his arms.

Then you see it.

Well, actually, it takes you a second to understand what it is you’re seeing. At first, you think it’s one of those horny couples thinking they’re being really discreet by going to the staff parking lot to make out, when in reality they could be caught by any one at any time. They’re just far enough that when you do a double take, you realize that you do know the back of that head; that fluffy mop of brown hair. You sit behind it every History period, next to it every Maths and English period.

The girl is up against the wall, and you can’t really see her, what with her and Jake’s tongues being down each other’s throat and his body blocking her from your view, his hands on her hips, her arms around his shoulders. All the works. She’s wearing a cheerleader uniform, so she could be any of twenty girls—but you’re pretty sure only one of them wears a pair of white Vans with red love hearts on them.

Your heart sinks to your stomach.

You’re frozen in place when a whistle rings in the distance, and Jake and Yunjin separate, giggling to each other as they jog to wherever the sound came from. The sports field, probably. It’s Monday; the cheerleaders and the soccer team share the field for their practice.

Jake spots you and Jongseong staring at them. He waves quickly, awkwardly at you, still smiling even when surprise coats his features. Yunjin tugs on his hand and just like that, they’re gone.

“Y/N-”

Jay’s voice fades in the background. You want to get away from this situation as quickly as possible—it’s embarrassing enough seeing the guy you like and thought you had a chance with kissing a girl that is arguably much more on his level than you are, but having Jongseong of all people not only witness it, but try to protect you from it, God knows why, makes it impossibly mortifying. You speed-walk to your dad’s car, huffing as you plop in your seat and slamming the door behind you. Your brother is already sitting in the passenger seat, and you don’t even argue with him about it. When you only give single-word replies to his questions, he shrugs and returns to playing Clash of Clans on his phone.

The moment you get home, you fish a five cent coin from your purse, change into mud boots and grab your dog’s leash. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

After half-an-hour of trudging through leaves and soft ground, muddy from many a rainy November night, you and Pablo, your massive, fluffy airhead of a German Shepherd, find yourselves at the well in the middle of the forest. Ever since you were little, you have attributed magic powers to the well—not that anyone told you any sort of myth about it, but you remember reading a story about a magic well and decided that your well would be magical, too. You’ve never wanted to abuse its powers, so you’ve used your wishes conscientiously: things like getting a certain present at Christmas (when you were nine and the most important thing ever was getting the Monster High doll you wanted) or not stuttering during your presentation in class (when you really didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of Park Sunghoon and his cool friends). Every wish you’ve made has come true. Whenever a faint voice of reason tells you that it’s because you always ask for very realistic things, you squash it and continue to believe in the well.

Because today, you’re not asking for something realistic.

Today, you’re asking the well to show you the way to love.

You’ve grown up watching The Notebook and Pride & Prejudice. Your parents are high school sweethearts who are still, twenty-five years later, happily married. You devour romance novels and binge-watch Asian dramas, the more unrealistic and romantic, the better. You are convinced that soulmates exist, that love always finds a way, that it is there for anyone to see. That it can take form in a childhood friend, an archnemesis, a total stranger.

But for some reason, it hasn’t shown itself to you yet, no matter how valiantly you’ve looked.

You’re absolutely sick and tired of it. It is Jake kissing another girl, it’s Sunghoon leading you on for months and then rejecting you in front of everyone, it’s your ex-boyfriend-who-shall-not-be-named, your first love and first heartbreak, dumping you after a year and getting with the girl he had told you not to worry about a week later. At a party a few months later, he’d said, word for word, “At least I didn’t cheat on you.”

Coin lodged between your hands, you interlace your fingers and press your palms closely together, eyes screwed shut in desperation. “Hey,” you start simply, because you and the well are good friends. “It’s been a while since I’ve asked for anything, so I hope you can indulge me… This is gonna sound so cliché, but I’m really tired of getting fucked over by boys — excuse my French — and I just wanna meet the person who’s right for me, you know? Mom’s always reminding me that I’m only eighteen, and that I’ve got plenty of time to meet someone, but I just feel like if I don’t find someone now, I never will. And if I get fucked over again — sorry — I’ll just lose hope and write off men for the rest of my life. So help a girl out, will you? I’ll leave it to you how you wanna go about it, but… just show me that there’s someone out there. Please.”

When you open your eyes, you need a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. You toss the coin in the well. It doesn’t make a sound as it hits the bottom, as if it has been absorbed within the old brick walls. You know better than to question it—the well works in mysterious ways.

You’re quiet that entire evening, making up an excuse of a tiring day at school when your parents ask. Really, you’re just thinking about your wish, whether it’ll work, what might happen. You half-ass your homework—Jay was right, the German exercises throw you into a bout of despair, so you quickly close your textbook and bury yourself in your sheets, falling asleep hours earlier than you usually would.

For some reason, the first thing you notice when you wake up is that it’s still dark outside. It must be the middle of the night, you think. It takes you a few seconds to realize that you’re in a completely strange room.

Instead of your floral-patterned sheets, you find yourself covered by delicate silk sheets that your parents would never agree to buy you, no matter how adamantly you argued for the benefits of silk for your skin. If skincare experts online had convinced you of one thing, it was that silk would do wonders for your obstinate acne. You slide out of bed and find a pair of slippers on the floor, as if waiting for you. Even the pajamas you’re wearing are fancier, more grown up than the ones you have at home, a set composed of a pinstriped button-up and shorts. You look around, for some reason more surprised and curious than panicked. You could’ve been kidnapped, for all you know, but all you care about right now is this room. Rather than the pink and white walls that have surrounded you since childhood, covered with pictures of you and your friends, postcards of artwork bought at museums, and posters of your favorite movies, the walls here are beige and mostly bare, except for a painting of Japanese cherry blossoms above the bed and a family portrait on the opposite wall, above a wooden chest of drawers.

The family portrait. A woman, a man, and what you can only assume are their children. They look like twins—two girls. Can’t be older than three years old. Out of the four faces, you recognize two of them. You recognize them far too well. One of them is yours, of course. You look slightly older, by a decade, maybe? You’re glad to know that you won’t fall off after twenty-five, like much of social media has led you to believe.

The other face you recognize immediately, too, but it takes you a few seconds to truly believe it.

It belongs to none other than Park Jongseong.

A dry chuckle falls from your throat, as if someone has just made a very insulting joke at your expense and you have to pretend you find it funny. The well has a very odd sense of humor, you think. It’s probably just a prank, a magic-induced nightmare before the real thing. Except this already feels real, disorientingly so. The fabric on your skin, the picture, the room. It all feels too real, more tangible than any dream you’ve ever had.

You take a step closer towards the picture, as if looking at it harder will make Jongseong’s face fade into that of another man, the real man that will become your husband and father of your children. But alas, his features remain the same, frozen in time by the photographer’s camera. He, too, looks older—and not only does he not fall off after twenty-five, he becomes all the more handsome for it.

Is this how you find out that Jongseong was handsome all along? You stare at it until the familiar face becomes practically unrecognizable, like repeating a word so much it stops feeling like one. The straight nose, the almond-shaped eyes that seem to have softened overtime, whereas his jaw has remained as sharp as ever. Have his eyebrows always framed his face so perfectly? Has that dimple always been there?

You look around again, and the bright numbers on the bedside alarm clock catches your attention. They read 9:57 p.m., but it’s the date that makes your stomach sink—today is still the 18th of November, but ten years later. You stare at the clock, at the unfamiliar number, a date so far into the future you can’t wrap your head around it. You could barely envision life after high school.

Downstairs, the sudden clang of pots and the sound of a tap running manage to rip your gaze away from the alarm clock. An overwhelming curiosity tells you to follow the noise. This is all a dream, so there are no consequences if you explore a bit more, right?

You’ve never been in this house before, and you have no idea where your feet are taking you until you find yourself in the kitchen. It’s the only lit room in the house, and you’re creepily standing in the dark under a wide archway that connects the kitchen to what looks like the dining room. A man has his back to you, washing dishes and putting them out to dry on a rack next to the sink. He’s wearing a white cotton sweater, one that you feel you recognise without ever having seen before, and a brown apron is tied around his neck and waist.

The first thing you think to yourself is Oh, his haircut hasn’t changed. In almost every class you share with him, Jongseong has made it a point to sit either next to you or right in front of you, so you’ve spent a lot of time glaring at the back of his head. You wouldn’t be surprised if he started developing two eye-shaped bald spots there. His hair is still short and spiky at the back and on the sides, longer on the top. When he lets it grow too long, it sometimes covers his eyes, and he obnoxiously keeps having to push it back like a heartthrob in an 80s movie.

Something like a memory flashes through your mind, blurry like those images you aren’t sure came from a dream or from real life. Your surroundings are unclear, but Jay’s face is nestled against your neck, your hand in his hair. You can feel the softness of the close shave against your palm as clearly as if you were touching it right now. You ask him why he’s always kept it that way, and he replies that it’s simple to maintain. Then in classic Jay fashion, he adds, “And it makes me look awesome.”

Another memory, a clearer one, this time—this definitely happened. It’s halfway through sophomore year, a random Tuesday, and Jay walks in, holding his head high and looking smugly around himself. The bastard got a new haircut. Long gone, his messy, unorganized flop of black hair that looked like it didn’t know what it was doing; hello, sleek undercut. It accentuates all of his best features, which is terrible news for you. You had never even thought of Jongseong as someone having “best” features, but now they’re being thrown in your face. His nose. His jawline. His smile.

It ruins your day, and a few after that. You can’t quite put it into words when your friends ask what’s wrong at lunch—or rather, you don’t wanna face the humiliation of uttering something along the lines of “Park Jongseong looks good with his new haircut, and it’s bothering me.”

Here, it’s a familiar sight in an unfamiliar environment, the back of his head. Without really thinking, you take a step forward. Jongseong starts at the sound of your slippers against the marble floor tiles, but his face relaxes into a smile when he sees you.

“Oh, it’s just you, honey. I thought you were sleeping.”

Just you. As if the two of you being in the same kitchen is normal. You guess it must be, to this version of Jongseong. To him, you’re not the annoying girl he strives to best in every class—you’re honey.

“I was,” you say, walking around the kitchen island to join him by the sink. Something in you needs to look at him, really look at him, maybe pinch yourself or pinch him to be sure you’re not going crazy. Maybe you caught wafts of some ancient algae that lives in the well and made you hallucinate?

“I left a plate out for you in case you woke up. Made your favorite. The girls weren’t so happy, seeing as it’s the third time this month,” he says with the special kind of smile reserved for parents talking about their children. The girls. A mention so casual, so obvious, your heart hurts. “But I think I got it really right this time,” he continues. “Honestly, it might even be better than the original.”

He goes back to washing the dishes and you watch the sponge in his hands as it scrubs away tomato sauce, the soap as it runs from the plates into the sink. A knot forms in your stomach, something like a deep sadness that overwhelms you all of a sudden, and tears form in your eyes, threatening to fall any second.

When you haven’t budged in almost a minute, Jongseong starts to say, in an intimate, almost worried voice, “Aren’t you going to eat, honey?” but when he sees your wet eyes, the tremble in your lower lip, he shuts the water immediately and dries his hands. With his thumbs, he wipes away the tears that have started falling from your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he whispers.

You can’t reconcile the man in front of you with the image you have of the boy that torments you in every class you share. You can’t reconcile the genuine concern in his voice with the snarky tone you’re met with every day. And yet, they respond to the same name, their features are identical, if not for the years that separate them, the stress of adulthood on one and the carefreeness of youth on the other.

Your body reacts automatically to the soft touch—never in a million years would you let the Jongseong you know come near you like this, but here, nothing feels more natural than his hands on your face, your shoulders, your hair, as though they’re just as much his as they are yours. You realize the emotion in your stomach is not sadness—tears fall, but you’re not sad. You’ve never felt as home as you do now, and if one thing romantic novels have taught you, is that this must be love.

You look up at the man in front of you, eyebrows furrowed as you search his face for confirmation or some sort of an answer. There’s a tremble in your voice when you speak next. “I just… I think I love you, Jongseong.”

He chuckles. “Well, we established that a while ago, didn’t we? What with getting married and having kids. But I’m glad you still feel that way.”

The mention of marriage and children doesn’t faze you nearly as much as it should. You’ve only got one thing on your mind. “Do you love me too?”

You expect him to laugh—not out of cruelty, but because the answer is so obvious, it almost doesn’t deserve to be answered seriously. Like when your brother asks if he can have one more of your cookies and you tell him you’ll cut his hand off. Sometimes you think it’s easier to be sarcastic than be unabashedly nice to someone. Especially with Jongseong, whom you don’t expect kindness or patience from, you wait for him to stay something like, “No, that’s why I’ve stayed with you these eight years.”

So when instead, he says, “More than anything on this Earth,” voice low and vulnerable, tears flow even harder.

“Sorry, it’s probably just my period,” you say through sobs, although you have no idea where in her menstrual cycle this version of you is.

Jongseong chuckles again, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You do get emotional around this time.” And you cry more, because you can’t believe someone other than your mother knows you so well that they know what your period symptoms are.

Rubbing soothing circles against your back and whispering soft words in your ear, he holds you for as long as you need to calm down. When you finally do, he tells you to go sit on the couch, that he’ll finish up the dishes then heat and bring your food for you. You think you’ve got your emotions under control, but the moment you bite the pasta, cooked to perfection with the most succulent tomato sauce you’ve ever had, sweet with a little kick of spice and a generous amount of parmesan cheese, tears start to fall again as if you had an endless stock of water behind your eyes.

“This is so good,” you mumble.

Jongseong smiles, his gaze full of affection miraculously directed at you as he tucks away strands of your hair so they don’t get in your eyes or in your food. “I’m glad, baby.”

You react to the nickname viscerally, words tumbling out of your mouth before you can even understand them. “You haven’t called me that in ages.” You widen your eyes at yourself, wondering how this was something you even knew. But when you look at Jongseong, all he does is smile more.

“You’re right, I haven’t. I guess I was reminded of college. You cried all the time back then. As much as it pained me, I can’t say I wasn’t happy to be the one you always came to for comfort.”

You haven’t been through college yet, so you should be unable to tell whether this truly happened or not—and yet, the memories of the body you’re in all confirm what Jongseong just said. But it feels impossible—going to university with him, letting yourself be vulnerable enough with him to not only cry in front of him but let him comfort you. Whatever could have happened in the years between the present you know and your time at university for things to change so drastically?

But before you can make sense of any of it, Jongseong speaks again. “Why? Do you like it when I call you baby?”

Your stomach flips. Heat rises to your face at his words, the tone with which he said them, the things he was alluding to—you know that having children means you’d popped your cherry at some point, that you’d had sex with Jongseong specifically, but to be confronted with the fact was something else.

“Maybe,” you mumble, and proceed to stuff your mouth with pasta so that you can’t incriminate yourself further.

He puts on a recent movie, something you should arguably be paying attention to, since you’re literally getting a glimpse into the future of cinema—you could steal the idea, go back to your present and sell it for an outrageous price.

But Jongseong’s presence next to you makes it impossible to concentrate on anything but him. The warmth emanating from him, the scent of his perfume envelop you, give you a sense of just how real this all is—despite how comfortable being with him like this feels, you’re still not convinced you’re not just in an unsettlingly vivid dream. You take one of his hands in yours, examining each finger, turning his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm, smoothing your thumb over his nails—it’s an undeniably human hand. Warm against yours, slightly rough. He’s started using hand cream, you think, all these winters when his dry hands would crack because of the cold coming up to your mind, teenage Jongseong’s hard refusal to wear any sort of cream to protect himself. Memories bob up to the surface: fixing his cracked hands up with a plaster, your tear falling on his hand, the both of you in your school uniforms in what looks like the school infirmary; awkwardly gifting him some hand cream the Christmas of that year, not looking at him as you hand him the small package. Saying, “It’s a waste of plasters for something that could be fixed so easily.” Him treating you to warm, spicy tteokbokki because he felt bad for not having gotten you anything, even though this was the first time either of you had ever given the other one a present.

As your fingers trail up from his hand to his forearm, his shoulder, his jawline, more memories flood your mind. Clumsy first kisses; squabbles of the kind you were already used to; lazy mornings in bed; hours spent in your kitchen or his, before you shared one, cooking dinner together; the way you felt when he proposed, a feeling so intense remembering it is almost unbearable now. Your eyes and fingers examine his face in detail—even though you’ve seen him almost every day since the start of high school, this feels like the first time you really perceive him. The delicate bow of his lips, the strong nose, the softness in his eyes when he looks at you. Your heart beats uncontrollably as you hold each other’s gazes, but you feel inexplicably relaxed at the same time, two nearly opposing realities fighting each other inside of you—one in which you and Jongseong regarding each other with such affection is unthinkable, the other in which it is daily routine.

“Movie not to your taste?” he asks, voice gentle, breaking you out of your stupor.

“Hm?”

He nods towards the TV screen. “I see you’re not paying much attention.”

“No. I have… things on my mind.”

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly growing on his lips. “Yeah?” You think your heart might actually flatline when he brings you in closer to his chest, and, face buried in your hair, says, “You know, I’ve been thinking that the twins might want a younger sibling to play with soon enough…”

You’re not sure whether he actually wants a third child or if this is weird dirty talk that apparently turns parents on—all you know is that this is something future you will deal with, not high school senior you.

You whip up your head at him, eyes wide in panic that he mirrors immediately. “Or—or not. Later. Later?” You nod fervently, and the worry dissipates from his handsome features. “Okay, later,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head before returning his attention to the movie.

A couple hours later, you’re laying in bed in the dark together—you can tell Jongseong is falling asleep by the regularity of his breathing and his stillness, but you’re wide awake. You don’t know how you’ve managed to spend all this time with him, acting like the wife he knows and loves, without imploding. But suddenly, the idea of waking up in your childhood bed, surrounded by your pink-and-white walls, going downstairs to be greeted by your brother and parents, sends a wave of panic through you. You haven’t felt this comfortable in a long time—Jongseong’s arm draped over your waist, the fact that you could reach over and feel his skin against your palm if you wanted. You don’t want to go back to a time where you hate him. In fact, you don’t know if you could hate him after this.

“Jongseong?” you say softly, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue, even though the name rings brusquely through your head for the best part of every day.

It takes a few seconds, but he reacts eventually. “Hm? Did you just call me Jongseong?” he murmurs sleepily, as if you’d just called him Robert or Christopher and not the name his own parents gave him.

“Yeah.”

He chuckles. “Now that’s something you haven’t called me in ages. Makes me feel like you’re mad at me,” he says, turning over and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His hair tickles your skin, and one of your hands comes up reflexively to feel the softness of his close shave.

“...Jong?” you try.

“That’s a step up, but not quite what I want,” he mumbles.

You’re silent for a few moments. “Honey,” you say tentatively, voice a mere whisper.

“That’s better.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

“Will you be here in the morning?”

“Mh-hm. It’s Saturday tomorrow.”

“No,” you say, feeling out of breath. “I mean, will you be here?”

You’re aware you’re not making much sense—and yet, Jongseong needs no further explanation. “Of course, baby,” he starts, voice soothing. “I’ll be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day afterwards. ‘Til death do us part, remember?”

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

“I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you, too,” you find yourself saying, and, more importantly, meaning. It’s the last thing either of you says before falling asleep.

Tears are streaming down your face when you wake up the next day. When you open your eyes, pink and white obnoxiously stare back at you. The clock reads 7:12, just three minutes before your alarm goes off, and unfortunately for high school you, the night hasn’t given in to Saturday morning—it’s Tuesday, and you have to go to school and act as if you hadn’t just had the weirdest, most realistic dream of your life. You don’t even get a weekend to shake this weird feeling in your stomach off, you’re going to have to face Park Jongseong full force. At least, this will become your friends’ favorite bit for the foreseeable future.

They’re already sitting in the classroom when you get there, animatedly chatting to each other. You plop down in your seat in front of them, and when they see the sullen look on your face, ask you what’s wrong.

“Did you wake up during the night to play Hay Day again?” Kazuha asks, eyebrows knotted with genuine worry.

“I’m not that person anymore,” you reply. “No, I just had a really weird dream. More like a nightmare, really. It feels like I didn’t get any sleep.”

“What was it about?” Sunoo asks.

Your eyes dart back-and-forth between the two of them as you brace yourself for their reactions. Not wanting anyone else to overhear, you lean in conspiratorially. They mirror you. “I was married to Park Jongseong,” you whisper. As expected, they burst into laughter immediately, and you lean back in your seat, crossing your arms in annoyance. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s very funny,” Kazuha retorts. “It’s ironic, even, considering how much you hate the guy.”

“Exactly!”

“But I guess even you know how ridiculous it is that you hate him, if your brain is able to imagine yourself being married to him,” Sunoo adds, shrugging. “It’s a good reminder that you’re literally the only person in this school with a vendetta against him.”

Kazuha nods energetically. “He picked up a pen for me, once. He’s a nice guy.”

You look around the room in panic. “Keep it down, will you?” you hush, despite the fact that no one is paying any attention to the three of you. You sigh, resolving yourself to telling them the entire truth. “But guys, I’m scared. I think this might be a sign.”

Their eyebrows perk up. “A sign that your hatred of him has actually been disguising a crush this entire time?” Sunoo asks, feigning innocence.

“No—what? Where did you get that idea?”

“Nowhere. Go on.”

“Whatever. Come here,” you say, gesturing for them to huddle again. “It’s the well.”

“Oh my God, Y/N, you’ve actually lost it,” Kazuha says, fascinated by your stupidity.

“I’m not going to tolerate any well slander, this is serious. I just wanted it to reassure me that there was someone out there for me. And then I had that stupid dream.”

Kazuha and Sunoo exchange a look like they’re parents trying to announce to their daughter that she’s adopted. “Y/N…” Sunoo starts.

“This is crazy. Like, love philters and writing Park Sunghoon’s name a hundred times are one thing, this is…”

“Crazy,” Sunoo said, nodding along. “This is crazy. There’s no other word for it. Your eighteen years of boyfriendlessness have finally caught up to you.”

“You guys don’t get it. What about that time I asked it to give me a good grade on our Literature exam and I literally came first out of our class? Or when I told it I missed Jung Hae-in and his military discharge announcement came the next day?” you say, aware that the look in your eyes is only confirming their suspicions—but you need someone to believe you, or at the very least understand you.

“One, you’re a good student. Two, that was pure coincidence,” Sunoo explains.

“But girl, if you want to marry Jay, that’s fine. You’ve got our blessing,” Kazuha says, shrugging.

“Yeah. He picked up her pen, once,” Sunoo adds.

“And you know, you guys clearly have some sort of chemistry.”

You scoff. “If you think that him refuting my every word and finding every opportunity to make fun of me, then yeah, I guess you could say we have chemistry.”

“You guys have banter,” Kazuha says as if it’s obvious.

“Oh, please. Banter is cute. I want to kill him every time he opens his mouth.”

Your friends both roll their eyes. “While I understand that most men are better off staying quiet—no offense, Sunoo—”

“None taken.”

“You have to admit Jay is not nearly as insufferable as you make him out to be,” Kazuha says.

“Are you kidding me? He’s always acting like a child. Rubbing it in my face when he gets a better grade, trying to start arguments for no reason, sucking up to teachers, stealing my erasers, for God’s sake, you’d think he’s twelve. I know that I’m not on the majority's side, but I seriously cannot understand how other people tolerate him at all.”

Sunoo sighs. “Because he’s nice to everyone. He never hesitates to help people, he’s even funny, sometimes, and—well, look at him.” He nods his head towards the door, and when you turn around, Jongseong is indeed walking in the classroom. “He’s not a bad-looking boy.”

“Gosh, Sunoo, maybe you should marry him,” Kazuha says, but since you laid your eyes on Jongseong, you’ve stopped listening.

You feel weird. You look at him, and you feel weird. It’s the same feeling you had during your sleep last night, a feeling that paralyzes you from head to toe, that starts in your stomach and spreads to your entire body, weighs you down in your chair.

“Hey, guys,” he greets simply, and his voice wraps itself around your heart and squeezes. You can’t do anything but watch him as he takes his seat next to you, plopping his bag on the table and taking his notebook out. He looks at you, watches you watching him, then swivels around in his chair.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asks your friends.

“She had a dream that she m—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Zuha, if you want to live to see another day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replies, a satisfied little smile on her lips.

Despite yourself, you’re still staring at Jongseong, trying to figure out what the hell these emotions are that are raging up a storm inside of you. Instead of ignoring you, he turns to face you, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm as he stares back at you, smirking. “What’s up, Y/N? Has it finally dawned on you how devastatingly handsome I am?” he asks, and you frown, because he’s not so far off from the truth.

“Please, kids, it’s 9 a.m., don’t flirt right in front of us,” Sunoo says, despair in his voice.

“She’s the one who started it,” Jongseong replies, still looking at you, his smirk growing.

For some reason, this startles you out of your trance, and you look away from him like you’ve been burned, preoccupying yourself instead with your notes for this class. “In your dreams, Jongseong,” you mumble.

“More like in yours,” Kazuha says, her and Sunoo giggling.

“Zuha!” you exclaim. Jongseong looks at you with raised eyebrows, and with his infuriating capacity to put two and two together, you’re scared he’s figured out what she meant, but you’re literally saved by your teacher who walks in at that moment and starts the class.

The second the bell rings to signify the end of the class, you hurriedly pack your things and mutter an excuse about needing the bathroom, trying to get as far away as possible from the boy whose all-too familiar scent had messed with your thoughts all class, whose every brush of his arm against yours had made your heart race uncontrollably.

It hadn’t just been a dream. It couldn’t have been.

Just like there was no doubt the 28-year-old Jongseong from last night had once been the annoying boy you knew, the 18-year-old Jongseong was sure to one day become the husband of your dreams. A devoted partner and father, his presence comforting, his good looks indeed devastating, unwavering.

There was no mistake to be made. The well had worked its magic.

Whether you liked it or not, you would end up marrying Park Jongseong. You, of all people; him, of all people.

Was there already something of your future husband in the boy that snickered when you mixed up your genders in German class, or would he one day spring out of nowhere? Apparently, you’d be around to find out.

But for now, how to act around him? It felt unfair that you were privy to this knowledge of your shared future while he was ignorant of it. Blissfully, perhaps. You couldn’t imagine that he would rejoice much at this news.

Your mind is somewhere else the entire day. At lunch, your other friends try to get the thing that’s obviously bothering you out of you, but Kazuha and Sunoo are there to tell them not to bother. You’d needed to tell someone about it, but you don’t want the entire school to know about your marital premonitions. The two knuckleheads you call your best friends are already doing a good enough job teasing you about it—”There’s your husband, Y/N,” when Jongseong walks past; “So have you thought of baby names? Kayleigh and Mackayleigh, perhaps?” unsolicited, during Physics. You turn around to check on the culprit — because yes, Jongseong is the culprit here, you, a mere a victim — and when he notices you staring, nods at you as if to say, What’s your problem?, trying to look threatening in his white lab coat that’s three sizes too big and protective goggles.

It doesn’t help that Jongseong has a way of hovering around you. Even in classes in which your teachers assigned the seats for you, he’s never far from your seat. The two of you sit next to each other in German, your last class every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. But today, the seat next to you is empty—what would’ve been a cause for celebration just yesterday is now a source of worry. You’d seen him just two hours ago in your previous class together, so where the hell was he now? He’s lucky that your teacher is an old German lady who always spends the first ten minutes of the lesson rambling about something in dialectal German no one understands but nods along to anyway. When he walks into the room, five minutes late, she just says, “Hallo, Jay,” and continues with her story. It’s about her first school trip to Berlin when she was fifteen and the country was still divided. You think.

He winks at you when he takes his seat and you roll your eyes. You pretend to listen to your teacher for thirty seconds, then hit him gently with your elbow. “Where were you?” you ask without looking at him.

He doesn’t answer immediately, probably surprised you initiated a non-hostile conversation with him for once. “I was just hanging out with my friends, something you clearly wouldn’t understand.”

And your friends wondered why you hated him?

“Still having imaginary friends at eighteen is really concerning, Jongseong. You should see someone about it.”

When you glance at him, he’s already looking right at you, smiling. You’ve never felt so conscious of your side profile.

“Why? Were you worried?” he whispers, kicking your foot with his.

You look at him, horrified—where the hell had he gotten that idea? How was he so spot-on? You scoff, trying to diffuse the tension inside yourself. “No.”

He kicks your foot again. “I was five minutes late and you started to worry?”

“No. Stop.”

“I didn’t know you cared about me so much, Y/N.”

This time, you give him a harsh look, one that lets him know you really mean your words—“Stop it.” Finally, he relents, getting the assigned homework out now that the teacher has actually started the lesson. Your face softens—he looks hurt. Guilt tugs at your heartstrings.

Despite what you might say, you like the way things are with Jongseong. If some people always need to be crushing on someone, you always need to have someone you perceive as an enemy—it was Na Jaemin in elementary school, because he’d once made fun of your incapability to climb the monkey bars; Shin Ryujin, in middle school, for kissing your crush during a game of spin-the-bottle at your own birthday party; Park Jongseong, since freshman year, for simply existing. Your reasons for disliking him are trivial, you’ll admit. You weren’t sure you could even place a finger on what had first triggered your disdain towards him—one too many awful jokes, one too many times raising his hand in class and rattling off a perfect answer, then looking around himself proudly, one too many roars of laughter heard throughout the entire cafeteria. The fact that no one else seemed to be bothered by him only added to your aggravation. He just got on your nerves, and it seemed that you openly showing your dislike of him — him, who was so used to being loved by everyone around him, pampered by his family, praised by his teachers, popular among his peers — was enough to make him dislike you, too. So, after a few failed attempts at trying to be your friend, because Jongseong was unable to not be friends with everyone he met, he didn’t simply give up.

If he couldn’t be your friend, then fine, he’d be your enemy.

At least, that’s how it appears to you, still now. It’s never gone dangerously far, but if there’s an opening to tease you or get on your nerves, he’ll do it. Not passing you the ball during soccer, or conversely, only aiming for you during dodgeball, not sharing his textbook with you when you forgot it unless you beg, loudly clearing his throat when you speak in class. And, lately, pouring salt on your wounds in the form of reminding you how impossible you and Jake Sim are. His motto must be if there’s a will, there’s a way. And when it comes to making your life hell, his will is infinite.

Everything is upside-down now. The question of how your relationship can possibly go from this to that obsesses you. It feels like you’re more capable of sharing a funeral, dying at each others’ hands, than a wedding.

“Jong, your textbook.”

He squints at you. “Funny how I’m Jongseong when you hate me, Jong when you need a textbook,” he says, sliding his book closer to himself.

“It’s not my fault your name is a mouthful,” you retort, trying to pull it back to the middle of the table, but he’s quicker than you.

“Then maybe you should call me Jay, like everyone else on Earth.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Now give it here. Please?” you ask, mustering your best smile. Any other teacher would’ve scolded the two of you by now, but Ms. Schumacher is peacefully going on about the importance of word order and punctuation in the German sentence, oblivious to her two students bickering in the back row. Jongseong usually never sits at the back of the classroom—only here.

He gives in, smiling back, but there’s something behind it, something that tells you nothing good is brewing in his brain. “Only because you’re so pretty.”

Normally, this kind of remark would’ve warranted a slap on the arm or an array of insults, but if today is anything, it is not normal. You look at him like you’ve been stung, visions of your not-dream coming to you in flashes like you’re the titular character on That’s So Raven—the affection in your husband’s eyes, the kindness in his words, the sincerity in his smile. Again, you’re left to wonder if this man is already taking root inside of the boy next to you, if Jongseong’s future capacity to love you presently exists in his heart.

Does your future capacity to love him already exist in your heart?

You watch as his smirk softens into a grin, your flusteredness and lack of a response clearly amusing him, then as he circles the exercises Ms. Schumacher is assigning for the lesson. She seems to have forgotten there was homework due—Jongseong will be sure to remind her of it quickly.

He kicks your foot again, tells you to focus. His ears have turned red.

You wonder if those capacities haven’t existed from the start.

As much as you love a good friends-to-lovers story, characters hiding their feelings out of fear of ruining the friendship have never failed to frustrate you — just tell her, you dummy, it’s obvious she likes you too — and yet, you’ve never related more than now.

Whatever it is that you and Jongseong have, you don’t want to lose it. It adds entertainment to your otherwise average life.

“Good thing she didn’t pick on you while we went over the homework, ‘cause you clearly put zero effort in. And I wouldn’t have helped you, even if you’d asked, by the way.”

You hum absent-mindedly as you put your notebook and pencil holder in your bag. Are you sure that these are even your feelings in the first place? Just because the well put a silly idea in your head doesn’t mean you have to believe it like it’s scripture. If what you saw is real, then it will happen in its own time. Things don’t have to start changing right this instant.

“Gosh, Y/N, what’s up with you today? You’re so boring,” Jongseong continues, following you out of the classroom.

“Just tired,” you reply. Wouldn’t it be unnatural if you were to radically alter the way you behave with Jongseong? Love should come about organically. Sure, his presence has always provoked some kind of reaction within you, but that’s usually been annoyance. Whether he’s stealing the fifth eraser you’ve bought that month or running on the soccer field, beads of sweat running down his temples, hair sticking out everywhere, victoriously smiling when his team scores—you’re annoyed. Whether he’s sticking up his hand higher than yours or going to the school dance with Ahn Yujin—you’re annoyed. When you learned that she’d been his neighbor since infancy and that she had a boyfriend, who went to another school and only trusted Jongseong to take her to the dance, you were still annoyed—this time at yourself for feeling even the tiniest bit relieved that nothing was going on between them.

And this — his quick steps trying to keep up with yours, his dumb story about yogurt coming out of Heeseung’s nose today at lunch when they were laughing too hard — yes, you’re still annoyed. But you realize you’re not annoyed at him.

You’re annoyed at how he makes you feel.

“Y/N?” he says, but you’re too deep in your thoughts, only vaguely registering the sound until he repeats it, louder this time, and grabs your hand, making you abruptly stop walking. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” he asks with genuine concern in his voice. “You’re barely listening to me. I mean, it’s not like you usually really do, but you’d have told me to get lost, like, five minutes ago now…”

He chuckles self-deprecatingly, but despite his words, you’re focusing on something else yet again. His hand on yours, his loose hold on your fingers. Your brain is yelling at you—hold his hand, hug him. It’s like there are still traces of the 28-year-old version of you you visited yesterday, urging you to behave like her and not 18-year-old you.

So, the well had let you know that you need not look much further to find what you wanted. Here it is, in the form of a boy you have convinced yourself you hated, and hated you, and yet, he’s holding your hand, asking you if you’re okay, worry knotting his eyebrows together.

Hold his hand. Hug him. Instead, you retract your hand, let it fall limply by your side. Jongseong’s eyebrows shoot up.

He’s so close, the supposed love of your life. You don’t know how to reach out to him.

For now, you smile. “Get lost, Jong.”

you guys how the hell do i act around jongseong now that i know our fates are romantically intertwined

kazuha i think not treating him like the number one public enemy would be a good start

you so what… be nice to him? how do i do that

sunoo oh my god y/n when she has to treat another person like a regular human being

you he’s not just another person!

sunoo okayyyyy i see you little miss repressed feelings

you i hate u

kazuha just don’t roll your eyes at everything he says anymore and don’t start arguments for no reason

you he’s the one who starts them… but okay i’ll try

“Let’s pair up for the reading analysis today. You can stay with your deskmate or pick a partner, I don’t mind as long as you get the work done. I’m talking about you, Chaewon and Yuri. This is English class, not a gossip session.”

The second your English teacher has finished speaking, Jongseong swivels in his chair. “Let’s partner up, Y/N?”

“What about me?” Jake asks, eyes darting back-and-forth between the two of you.

“You can partner up with Minju,” Jongseong replies, pointing to the girl he’s usually seated next to. “Look. You guys will be great together. Say hi, Minju.” Minju waves shyly at Jake, braces on display as she smiles ecstatically. It’s not everyday that she gets to talk to one of the most popular guys in school.

Jake reluctantly switches seats with him, glancing back at you and Jongseong who just grins at him, fake friendliness plastered on his lips, until he turns around again. Your new partner’s smile softens and reaches his eyes when he looks at you. “Hi.”

You have to look away—you feel your face burn under his gaze. “Hi, Jong.”

He tilts his head. “What? Do you hate me so much that you can’t even look at me now?” he asks, and you can’t tell whether he’s joking or genuine.

You frown. “I don’t hate you.”

“Oh? That’s a recent development.”

“I guess,” you mumble after a few seconds. Is it really? You suddenly can’t remember if you ever really hated him, or if you’d exaggerated your own feelings.

His smile widens. “Well, good. I mean, you were going to have to realize at some point that I really am funny, smart, endearing, handsome-”

“Back to hating.”

“Let’s start the assignment.”

You agree on reading the passage first, but you realize halfway through that not a single word has been absorbed. “Hey. Why did you switch seats with him?” you ask, whispering so as not to be overheard.

Jongseong shrugs. “I thought you wouldn’t want to work with him, considering…”

“Right.” You’re silent again, but only for a bit. “What’s it to you?” you mumble.

He scoffs. “Sorry for trying to be considerate.”

“That’s not—”

“Let’s just focus on this.”

His sudden coldness vexes you. You know you should let it go — don’t start arguments for no reason, and all that — and you know it’s childish, but you can’t help yourself. You have certain reflexes you’re not particularly proud of when it comes to one Park Jongseong. “Let’s just focus on this,” you repeat, mocking his grumbling tone of voice and shaking your head like a puppet.

He glares at you. “Can you not act like a toddler for once?”

“Can you not be a dick for once?” you bite back.

“Y/N, Jongseong, I’m sure you’re having a fascinating conversation on the use of chiaroscuro in the text?” your teacher asks, a look of warning on his face.

“Yes, sir,” you reply, embarrassed.

“Yes, so much chiaroscuro,” Jongseong mumbles, resting his cheek on his knuckles. When the teacher has turned away, he kicks your foot. “See, you’re getting us in trouble.”

“Do you even know what chiaroscuro is?”

He hesitates. “That’s not the problem here. You are.”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t-”

“Y/N, Jay, final warning.”

“Sorry,” you both say at the same time. With one last glare at each other, you finally get to work.

So your plan to start getting along with Jongseong isn’t in full-force yet. On the drive back home that afternoon, you reassure yourself that these things take time. When the moment is right, the two of you will grow closer.

But increasingly, it feels as though the right moment will never come.

Two months have passed since your visit to the well, and things between you and Jongseong have not changed. Not really, at least.

You still bicker like cat and dog — it goes without saying that you’re the cute puppy and he’s the heartless cat — and he gets as much on your nerves as ever, especially now that you know that the potential to be nice to you, to love you, even, exists somewhere inside him. Somewhere deeply hidden perhaps, but somewhere nonetheless. Of course, after telling yourself that what must come will come of its own accord, you haven’t done much to change the dynamic between the two of you. But if you used to see your retaliations against him as necessary to your survival, you now find some sort of enjoyment in them—some might call it Stockholm Syndrome, you perceive it as a step in the right direction. You’ve followed one of Kazuha’s pieces of advice: you don’t roll your eyes at him anymore, simply because you don’t feel the need to. You argue with him with a smile on your face, his attempts at insulting or annoying you have started to make you laugh.

He doesn’t say anything but seems to gladly welcome this change. If you get a lower grade than him on a test, he doesn’t try to stick the knife in further, but genuinely offers to go over it with you later. If you give in after two hours of tearing your hair out over a German exercise and text him for help, he doesn’t make fun of you. If he says something particularly arrogant or makes a really bad joke, all you need to do is give him a look, and he’ll mumble an apology.

Could it have been like this the entire time? you wonder, watching him across the schoolyard as he and Heeseung hunt for Pokémon. Just a couple months ago, you would’ve scrunched your nose at the sight, making fun of him for his childish interests. Now, you notice the way he laughs, audible all the way to where you sit with Kazuha and Sunoo, the way he jumps excitedly and points at things only he and his friend see, and all you feel is endearment.

“Look at you, look at that,” Sunoo says as he hits you on the forehead with his metal spoon, startling you. He tuts. “You’ve got love dripping from your eyes, sweetie.”

“Sunoo, that’s disgusting.”

“Love? I know.”

“No, your spoon. Your saliva’s all over that,” you say, and all he does is eat another mouthful of his yogurt while staring wide-eyed right at you. When you look back at Jongseong, he’s high-fiving Heeseung. You wonder which creature he’s caught now. In the library yesterday, he spent thirty minutes showing you every single one he had captured so far instead of revising for the upcoming Physics test.

“Yeah, we know you’d like someone else’s saliva more,” Kazuha chimes in, and the two of them snort.

“It’s not like that,” you say, biting into an apple slice.

“Oh yeah? What’s it like, then?” Kazuha asks.

“We’re… becoming friends,” you say, but you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince more.

“Y/N, I’ve had to watch the two of you giggling to yourselves in the library one too many times to believe you’re friends. I know your homework’s not that funny,” Sunoo argues.

“Friends can giggle with each other!” you exclaim, but your friends are inflexible.

“I would tell you to get yourself together if you giggled at me like that,” he says.

“I saw you twirl your hair the other day,” Kazuha adds.

“I never—When?!”

She shrugs. “The other day.”

You deflate, crushed under your friends’ accusations. “I wouldn’t twirl my hair…” you mumble. You decide to busy yourself with your apple slices, not even bothering to find out what Kazuha and Sunoo start snickering and elbowing each other about.

“Hey,” a familiar voice greets, making you look up. Jongseong smiles at you and steals an apple slice from your tupperware as he sits down next to you, Heeseung across from him.

“Hi, Jong,” you say, sitting up straighter. You offer a piece of fruit to Heeseung but he declines, saying he doesn’t like apples without peanut butter.

In front of you, your friends exchange a look, and you’re immediately terrified of what they’ll do next. Leaning in, they place their elbows on the table, and Kazuha starts them off. “Jay, you and Y/N know each other pretty well, right?”

Jongseong glances at you, eyes wide. “Uh, sure.”

“Have you ever noticed her, say, twirling her hair?” Sunoo asks, tilting his head innocently at the poor boy by your side.

You’ve never seen him look so confused. “Um, yeah, she does that when she’s concentrating on something, sometimes…”

They lean back. “Huh,” Kazuha says, studying Jongseong’s face.

“Interesting. Very interesting,” Sunoo says, slowly nodding.

You glare at your friends. “See, that’s different,” you tell them. “I was concentrating on something, not doing… whatever you guys had in mind.”

Jongseong looks at you. “What did they have in mind?”

You answer before either of them can dig your grave any deeper. “Nothing. It’s nothing. We were just having a stupid conversation.” You muster your most convincing smile, and the subject is finally dropped.

No one says anything for a few moments, until Heeseung decides to speak up: “You should’ve seen Jay earlier, Y/N. He caught this super rare version of Pikachu earlier, it was awesome.”

“Dude…” Jongseong murmurs.

“What?” Heeseung asks, his enthusiasm quickly dissolving into confusion. Jongseong just shakes his head. Thankfully for all of you, the bell rings then, and you head to class. The three of them walk in front of you while you and Jongseong fall back a step.

“Why were you guys sitting outside? It’s freezing today,” he asks you. Walking side-by-side like this, you can’t help but notice the inches he has over you, the broadness of his shoulders in comparison to yours.

“They turned the heat way too high in the cafeteria, so we came outside for some fresh air,” you explain. He’s right, the air is chilly today—it’s a few days into December, and the temperatures have been accordingly low.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Your heart skips a beat. One of the side effects of not being at each other’s throat anymore was that you got more and more often to be privy to this side of Jongseong—attentive, considerate, kind. What you once thought were his moral attempts at not being so mean to you all the time, you found out was actually his real nature. He wasn’t a prick who was sometimes nice, he was a nice person who turned into a prick with you. Whether the fault lay on him or you was another debate.

“No, I’m alright,” you say, but your body decides to betray you and makes you sneeze three times in a row.

“Bless you,” Jongseong says, laughing. “Here.” You try to stop him, pushing his hands away, but he takes his gloves off and forces them in your palms.

“I’m going to be inside for the next four hours, Jong, I’ll be fine. Keep them.”

“No, it’s okay. Just so you can warm up quicker.”

You eventually give in, putting the gloves over your hands, laughing at the extra fabric that hangs off the tip of your fingers. But when you look at Jongseong’s now-bare hands, something catches your attention. Stopping in the hallway, you grab one of them, examining the cuts on his knuckles. “You need to wear hand cream, Jong, your hands are too chapped.”

He lets you turn his hand over, smooth over his skin, do the same thing with his other hand. “Men don’t wear hand cream,” he says, a grin on his lips.

You burst out laughing. “I think that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Seriously, though, I don’t like the way it feels. Too sticky.”

“You just need to get a quick-absorption one.” Then, you make the terrible mistake of looking up from his hand and meeting his eyes—you gasp silently, his gaze and soft smile transporting you right back to that night, the images of 28-year-old and 18-year-old Jongseong mixing into each other, becoming indistinct from each other. Your gaze drifts down to his lips — chapped, too, when they’re usually plumper, rosier — and his hand, still in yours, balls into a fist. The second bell rings and you both take a step back, eyes meeting again for a brief moment before looking down at the floor. With uncharacteristically shy, embarrassed words of parting, you make your separate ways to your next classes.

“That was beautiful, Y/N,” Sunoo says, waiting for you by the door, and you walk past him without so much as a glance.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

sunoo jay and y/n almost kissed earlier

kazuha WHAAAAT

you KIM SUNOO.

kazuha WHEN?????

sunoo right before class after the lunch break y/n was sooo embarrassed afterwards lol

you we did NOT almost kiss you’re talking out of your ass

kazuha i can’t believe i missed this fml

you YOU DIDNT MISS ANYTHING NOTHING HAPPENED

sunoo be serious u guys we’re standing inches apart

you were* and no we weren’t

sunoo oh stfu it was autocorrect i saw it w my own eyes y/n… you WERE literally holding his hand and staring into those beautiful eyes of his

kazuha sunoo…?

sunoo what can’t a man acknowledge another man’s objective attractiveness if i was y/n i would’ve folded the moment i saw him

you literally one of the first times he talked to me was to make fun of my handwriting

sunoo yeah he’s on his tsundere shit i fw it

you …

sunoo anyways zuha you shouldve seen it when the bell rang they practically leaped away from each other and u didnt know what to do w yourselves afterwards likeeee it was so obvi what you both were thinking of

kazuha cuuuute

you i resent these accusations.

sunoo istg if u dont kiss him next time i will

kazuha ???

you SUNOO?

sunoo WHAT

Something happens a few days before the start of winter break.

Ms. Schumacher is absent, gone off to Germany to visit her family there—she has enough seniority in the school that they let her abandon her responsibilities as a teacher once in a while. A week is too short a period of time for them to bother finding a substitute. It’s usually your last class of the day, but you have to wait around for your dad to be done working, so while most of your classmates have gone home early, you sit with about six other people in the unsupervised study room, absent-mindedly jotting down tid-bits of dialogue for your new story idea, too preoccupied with Jongseong’s absence to really pay attention to anything else. It’s fifteen minutes after the hour, but he’s nowhere to be found, although you know for a fact that he takes those weird Molecular Gastronomy cooking classes your Chemistry teacher offers for extra credit every Thursday after school, so he should be here. And anyways, if he’d gone home, he would’ve texted you something like, Have fun sitting around for an hour, I’m gonna go do awesome stuff with Heeseung, even if awesome stuff meant playing Mario Kart or drinking Sprite and holding a two-person burping contest.

You’re so engrossed in your own thoughts that you pay no mind to the sudden ding of a phone in the room, followed by some gasps and heated whispers. The exchanged words go through one ear and out the other—There was a fight? In the locker rooms? It must be bad if they were sent to the nurse before the principal… Huh? Over who? So he took both of them on? Damn, I didn’t know Jay got like that. He seems so well-behaved.

Your head whips up at the mention of your friend’s name. “Jay? Did something happen to him?” you ask out loud, the whispers dying down immediately as everybody stares at you.

Gaeul, who was in your class last year, is the only one who answers you. Holding up and waving her phone, she says, “They say he got into a fight.”

Jongseong? A fight? It sounds like a practical joke. He admitted to you he once started crying watching Heeseung playing Call of Duty, it was so violent. You shake your head. “He-he did? With who?”

Gaeul and the girl next to her exchange a concerned, almost guilty look. “Jake and Sunghoon.” The crease between your eyebrows deepened. You don’t need to ask anything else before she adds, “They’re at the nurse’s station. It sounds pretty bad…”

That’s enough for you to leap out of your chair and run to the nurse’s station. It seems the news has spread impossibly quickly among your year group—even Kazuha and Sunoo are already blowing your phone, asking you if you’ve heard, if you know how Jay is. You ignore them, reminding yourself to text them back later, until one message from Sunoo in particular catches your attention: It apparently started because Sunghoon said something about you, Y/N. They’re saying Jay got angry.

The nurse is busy on the phone when you get there, her back to the entrance, so you’re able to slip in unnoticed. You head to the adjoining room where the beds are, all three of them taken—you walk by Sunghoon first, his arms crossed over his chest and pointedly not looking at you, then by Jake, who calls out your name. You glare at him and pull on the white plastic curtain that separates his bed from Jongseong’s. They’re already going to hear you, you don’t need them seeing you on top of that.

Jongseong sits up with a grunt when you appear at the end of his bed. The sight of him makes your stomach flip, and not in a good way, for once—his left eye is swollen and circled by a deep purple bruise, shiny with ointment, there’s a cut on his cheek, his lower lip is busted, his right hand is wrapped in bandages. “Oh my God,” you whisper as you help him up, voice breaking. He stares at his hands, jaw locking when you gently place one palm on his good hand, the other on the side of his face, moving it this way and that so you can take a better look at his injuries. He winces, and you let go, resting your hand on his shoulder instead. “What the hell got into you?” you whisper vehemently, unable to decide if you’re worried or angry or both as tears form in your eyes.

He tries to shrug, but even that seems to hurt. “Don’t shrug, Jongseong, tell me what happened.”

“I’m Jongseong again now?” he says, attempting a smile, but only one corner of his lips rises.

You sigh. Even in this state, he has to be a smart-ass. “You’re Jong when I need a textbook, Jongseong when you get into stupid fights,” you reply, and he smiles wider but immediately winces, hand coming up to the cut on his lip. You notice that his hand is still riddled with cracks, and whether they’re due to their dryness or to this fight doesn’t matter—”Wait here,” you say, and go rummage through some drawers for plasters. “She forgot some spots.” You feel Jongseong’s eyes on your face as you patch him up to the best of your abilities.

“I don’t want to tell you what happened. I’ll do the job of hating these idiots for the both of us, so don’t concern yourself with them,” he says, apparently not caring that the idiots in question can hear his every word.

He keeps his promise—you never hear another word from him about the cause of the fight.

Later, you find out through other means, namely Sunoo’s questionably remarkable ability to unearth any and all gossip, that in the locker rooms after Phys Ed, someone had started Jake on the topic of Yunjin, who had been recently revealed as his girlfriend. They’d apparently kept it secret because it was just fooling around at first, and only later had gotten serious enough for them to parade around the school as the couple.

It had been an unremarkable conversation until Jake said, “You guys know Y/N from our class? She saw us in the staff parking lot once, and I was sure we’d be busted then. But she didn’t tell anyone.” And just like that, the conversation turned to you, someone who was usually never a topic among these boys, jocks, soccer players, “the kind of people who peak in high school and still have a superiority complex at forty,” as Sunoo describes them.

He has a harder time explaining what happened next, can’t quite look you in the eye as he recounts what was said. “So, this is what they say, apparently someone said that you used to be obsessed with Sunghoon, then with Jake, and Sunghoon said you… Well, he said you were pathetic, that asshole, and that you had been so easy to lead on, then Jake joined in, saying the same things, basically, how funny it was seeing you so obviously in love with him when he would never give you a chance…” He looks at you worriedly, but you tell him to go on. “And so that’s when Jay got up and just straight-up punched Jake in the face. And while Jake was trying to figure out what happened, Jay punched Sunghoon, and then they both got on him, pushing him, but when he wouldn’t stop throwing punches, they started fighting, too. I think they all got some good ones in before the other boys were able to break them apart and the P.E. teacher arrived…”

But that would be later. Now, sitting with Jongseong in the nurse’s station, tears falling onto the plasters you place on his hand, nothing matters but him. You don’t need the details—he’s hurt, he got hurt over you, you feel as though every cut on his body may well have been done by your own hand. You’ve never felt so guilty for something you didn’t do. Your voice trembles when you speak; you’re unable to look at him, at his busted eye. “I just don’t want you to get hurt for me.”

Without missing a beat, he says, “What else would I get hurt for?”

You can only meet his eyes for a split second. Even like this, he manages to look at you with the same softness that has haunted you since the night you met 28-year-old Jongseong, that has rendered all thoughts of anything other than him meaningless since the day your gaze drifted down to his lips just weeks ago. “Jong…” is all you can mutter as you look down at your hands holding each others’, your lips trembling.

He raises his bandaged hand, still not used to his dominant side being ineffective for now, then lowers it when he realizes. Clumsily, he pats your hair with his left hand. “Don’t cry, please…”

Jake’s head pops out from behind the curtain. “Y/N, I’m really sorry—”

“Not right now, man,” Jay quickly interrupts. Jake pathetically disappears behind the curtain again.

“Just promise me you won’t do this again.”

“Y/N…”

“Promise me,” you say, more demanding this time, sticking out your pinky finger. Jay, hesitant, looks between your outstretched finger and your face a few times, but eventually gives in.

The nurse, upon coming to check on the boys, catches you with Jongseong and chases you out immediately. You sulk back to study hall, where everyone’s head perks up the moment you walk in. “They’re okay,” you reassure vaguely, and unenthusiastically answer their many questions. It’s only a few minutes until the bell rings, and you’re free to go then.

jong so… guess who got a five-day suspension

you you idiot what did your parents say?

jong they’re not happy i have to do all the household chores for a month

you boo-hoo

jong not sure why i came here thinking i’d get some comfort…

you … are you feeling better?

jong a little bit the nurse gave us some really strong painkillers but i’m okay because there’s a pretty girl that’s going to drop off the homework for me after school every day :)

you oh did you ask chaewon to do that?

jong um no i was talking about you ..if that’s okay

you haha i know i just wanted you to say it straight up

jong ykw maybe i should just ask chaewon

you i’ll see you tomorrow jong!!

jong :) see you tomorrow pretty

The months that separate your return to school and graduation come and go in the blink of an eye. Jongseong can’t come to school the last day before the holidays or the first four days after, and he’s grounded in-between. Things change bit by bit with every day you visit him—To give him the homework, you tell his parents, although there isn’t much to do when the semester isn’t in full swing, and you could’ve easily sent him pictures. The first time, you spend more time scouring the pictures and trinkets in his room than actually talking to him, and awkwardly give him a half-hug when he tells you he won’t be able to hang out at all during the break before practically running out of his house, your heart beating a thousand miles a minute from the innocent contact. By the fourth time, you lie together on his bed and talk about your plans for college, your hands sitting centimeters apart on the navy sheets. You haven’t dared touch his hand since that day in the nurse’s station.

You’re window-shopping with Kazuha when you spot the hand cream you had seen yourself gifting Jongseong in your well-given vision. Buying it is one thing, actually giving it to him is another, an awkward, stuttery situation in which the wrapping done by the store employee suddenly seems over-the-top and out-of-place. But Jongseong seems to like it—it’s the last day of his suspension, his black eye is now a yellow-ish color, he can smile without risking splitting his lip in two. He applies it immediately, tells you he’ll make sure to wear it every day until the end of winter. You find yourself wishing there was something you could give him for every season so he wouldn’t go a day without thinking of you. When you leave, he bashfully thanks you for making sure he doesn’t fall behind and says he’s excited to see you at school the next day. You hardly know what to do with yourself, so you squeak out a “me too” and slip out the door.

His first day back is a Friday. It starts with Mathematics, a class in which you sit by each other. You remember the first week of classes when Kazuha and Sunoo had ran to sit with each other, expressly because they knew that if he saw you were sitting alone, he’d take the seat next to you, just to better torment you all year. You’d resented it then; it couldn’t make you happier now. Your body is humming with nervous energy, your foot tapping relentlessly against the tiled floor. When he appears in the doorframe, you wave at him as if he’d forgotten his seat in three weeks of absence. His elbow brushes against yours as he sits down.

Between the two of you, friendship blossoms over these months. To the detriment of everyone around you, you continue to bicker as you always have, but it’s now clearly done out of habit, out of affection, even, than out of actual dislike of each other. He and Heeseung slowly integrate your small group of three, and before you know it, it feels as though there have always been five of you. Together, you welcome spring.

In January, to thank you for helping him to pick out his mom’s birthday present, Jongseong treats you to some tteokbokki, which you said you’d been craving all week. He orders the spiciest one, then has to take a sip of water between every bite. You laugh at his teary eyes and red face while you devour the bright red rice cakes easily.

In February, he makes a show of giving you and Kazuha and Heeseung and Sunoo some homemade chocolates, saying it’s a friend thing. You find out that evening that the others each have five in their box—there are twenty in yours. It’s one of the things that makes you second guess what sort of feelings he has for you. For years, you’ve been convinced he harbored strong feelings of disdain for you; now, he seems to enjoy your friendship. You’re scared to read too much into anything, because if Jongseong is well-liked throughout school, it’s for a reason: he’s nice. To everyone. Even to you, too, nowadays. But if nice is giving five chocolates, what is giving twenty?

A sudden realization hits you in March—Jongseong appears at your door, drenched from the rain, a bag of your favorite snacks in hand. “You weren’t at school today. I had to find out you were sick from Kazuha,” he says as if she was a random classmate of yours and not your best friend, as if he should be the first to know about these kinds of things. Your mom rushes him in, finds him so charming in the five minutes they converse that she decides he should stay over for dinner, and as you watch him laughing with her, you think, I haven’t thought of 28-year-old Jongseong in ages. I’ve only thought of you. And although you can trace the start of your feelings to that dream-like experience you had, you can now say with confidence that it’s not the only reason for them.

College application results come out in April, right on his birthday. The five of you celebrate together at an American-style diner, gorging yourselves on crispy bacon and chocolate chip pancakes. Kazuha is going back to Japan, almost a decade after moving to South Korea—”I’m gonna miss you guys, but I miss takoyaki and my grandma more right now.” Heeseung has been accepted into the Engineering department at the country’s top university. You, Sunoo and Jongseong are all heading to the same place: you for Screenwriting, which you’ve known since you were one of the winners of the scholarship contest last October, Sunoo for Communications, whatever that is, and Jongseong for European History and Literature with a minor in German, that freak. It’s a good university, and it’s not far from home. The way Jongseong tells you about his acceptance sticks with you: he doesn’t say, They accepted me, too, or, I’m going to the same university as you. He says, We’ll be together.

May is filled with afternoons at the park when you should all be studying for exams. Your mom keeps asking when she’s going to see “that wonderful boy” again. Your friendship with Jongseong has given him new ways of teasing you—after four years of near-kleptomaniac tendencies, he’s finally stopped stealing your erasers and has instead started to let his gaze linger on your face, to call you pretty when you least expect it, to tuck your hair behind your ear. You hate it most when he asks you whether there’s something from your romance novels or movies that you want him to recreate. “Is there a field big enough nearby that I can walk through at the break of dawn, Mister Darcy-style?” he’ll say, or “I’ve always wanted to try that upside-down kiss from Spider-Man. It’s a classic, really.”

Summer comes early in June. You need to bring a two-liter water bottle and a hand fan to your exams, and you’ve never felt such relief as when it was all over. After endless pictures with your parents and siblings, just your parents, just your siblings, then Kazuha and Sunoo, together, then separately, then with Heeseung and Jongseong as well, Kazuha forces you and Jongseong together, watching with a smile as he shyly wraps an arm around your waist and you awkwardly throw up a peace sign. It’s your first picture of just the two of you.

In July, you and Jongseong unlock a new first: saying goodbye. He’s leaving to stay with his American family as he does every summer. You show up at his house the day before at four p.m. “to help him pack,” you say, but it’s Jongseong, and he finished packing two days ago. So instead, you sit on his desk chair, he on his bed, and you fight back tears. “You’re coming back, right?” you ask, like he’s leaving to go to war and not Seattle. Amusement and affection flicker in his eyes. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t throw four more years of being a pain in your ass away, would I?” he says, and you smile, because you know it’s going to be much more than four years.

But he doesn’t just leave you with a few nice words. Avoiding your gaze, he hands you an envelope. Inside is a single ticket, a two-month membership for your city’s arthouse cinema that you can only go to when they have student deals or when your parents have had enough of your begging. You can’t even begin to imagine how much this must’ve cost. “Jong…” you murmur, in awe at the thin slip of paper between your hands. “This is incredible. Thank you so much.”

Jongseong looks down at his feet, fighting a smile as he kicks the invisible rocks that obviously litter the floor of his bedroom. “I thought you’d get bored without me around, so, that way you can entertain yourself, I guess… And if you run into any film bros next year, you’ll have seen as many pretentious movies as them.”

You burst into laughter then, and, without thinking, wrap your arms around his neck, thanking him over and over again. It takes him a second, but he wraps his arms around your waist and says it’s no big deal.

As you walk down the path from your house, he calls out your name. “Don’t be a stranger,” he says.

You smile. “Never.”

So, he’s not here for summer. Kazuha is working in her parents’ ramen restaurant to make some money before leaving, even Heeseung leaves two weeks into July for Seoul to visit some relatives there and get accustomed to life in the big city. You only get to laze around with Sunoo, but even he eventually leaves for his grandparents’ house by the sea, making you promise you’ll come visit him at some point, otherwise he’ll “die of boredom.”

It’s August now, and your brain and body alike buzz with restlessness. You go to the cinema almost every day, making the best of your subscription. If you’re not going around your house looking for spider webs with your vacuum cleaner, you’re riding random bus lines and discovering parts of your town you’ve never set foot in before. If you’re not making your way through your never-ending pile of unread books, you’re creating your own stories, finally taking the time to properly outline and draft the one-line ideas you’ve had sitting in your Notes app, preparing yourself for the start of your degree. Your mind is taken up with love stories. From Romeo & Juliet to Dirty Dancing to Book Lovers, you can’t get enough of the genre. You become particularly obsessed with stories involving time travel, rewatching After Time and Lovely Runner like they contain some precious knowledge. By the end of the month, you’ve turned your life into an eight-episode TV series—a desperate girl makes a wish on a star only to discover she is fated to marry the one boy she hates most. You know you’d watch that. You send Sunoo and Kazuha the pilot, and after calling you insane numerous times but also heaping on praises, Sunoo says this: lol your going through jay withdrawals.

It shakes you so much you’re not even compelled to message back you’re*.

But he’s not wrong. The more you let yourself admit it, the more you realize how true it is: you miss Jongseong. You text once in a while, you’ve even stayed up late talking on the phone a couple of times, but you miss him, his corporeal form, having his gaze on you, having the possibility but never the courage to touch him. Every day, there’s something you want to tell him about. The cats huddling around a young neighborhood kid as he pours milk into a bowl, the clearance sale at your local library, most books for one buck only, the actor from an 90s Hong Kong film you swear has the exact same smile as him. You don’t want to bother him, so you write letters instead. Some you send, some you don’t—the ones you keep hidden in your drawer usually hint too obviously at your feelings for him. Some of them don’t just hint and contain lines of your declarations: I miss you, everything I see reminds me of you, I want to check that your bruises have healed completely even though the last trace of them faded months ago. You keep these letters a secret, even from Sunoo and Kazuha, who would never let you live down such woebegone, down bad behavior.

You do it because it feels good, getting all of your feelings out on paper. You’re a romantic at heart, so you’re prone to over-exaggeration when it comes to things like these—but everything that you write remains based in truth. You’d started with a postcard of your hometown, jokingly writing, Don’t forget where you came from. How is it over there? and he’d actually replied with a postcard of his own, filling it from top to bottom. You easily went from these small postcards to multiple pages of stream-of-consciousness-like writing. You think it’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done—although you’re not sure he feels the same way, considering he still writes to the German pen pal Ms. Schumacher had assigned him in your first year of high school. No one else’s correspondence had lasted more than four months because she’d immediately forgotten to make sure you kept in touch regularly.

I ran into Jake Sim at the city library, you write one day. You’ve replied to everything in his latest letter, so you’re now catching him up on your recent adventures. He was checking out some books about Linguistics, of all things—he bought me bubble tea afterwards and told me that the injury he got last April was actually a relief. Did you know his father was a big name in soccer here? Apparently, he never wanted to be a soccer player that badly, and he wants to do Linguistics and Social Anthropology, who would’ve guessed it. He’s like Troy Bolton if High School Musical was about Humanities and not singing. Anyways, you probably don’t want me to go on and on about him, so I won’t, but we did talk about that fight you guys had back in December. He apologized for it, to you and me both, although he didn’t go into much detail — Sunoo is still the only one who’s had the balls to tell me exactly what happened, and he wasn’t even there! — and I was reticent at first, but he seemed genuine. He said he didn’t even hang out with Sunghoon or Yunjin or any of those people anymore, that it was only out of convenience really, and that he hopes starting university will be like turning over a new leaf. Well, he could be full of shit, who knows. As I sat there listening to him I wondered what it was I used to see in him. He’s nice enough, but we only spoke about him for the entire hour. He asked me no questions that weren’t “and you?” so it was a bit exhausting.

But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you.

You look at your words, smiling to yourself—this is one of the times where you find yourself erring from the topic at hand, instead indulging in sappiness and nostalgia. You write about how your opinion of Jongseong has changed over these months, how it wasn’t seeing him as your husband in all those years that had really shaken things up, but rather that day in the nurse’s station, the frightening colors around his eye, his attitude like it was natural that he would get hurt like this for you. You write, Have I been wrong about you this whole time? I thought you harbored the same negative feelings towards me as I had you since the moment you’d laid eyes on me, but all of a sudden, here you were, bloody, bandaged hand holding mine. Even with your busted eye, you looked like an angel next to all that white in the nurse’s station. I’ll never forget your words that day. Would you really not get hurt for anything else, Jong?

“I’m going to the Post Office for a package soon, Y/N. Are you done with your letter?” your mom calls from the staircase landing.

“Give me five minutes!” you call back.

You forage through your drawer for a new sheet of paper and re-write your letter, making sure to leave any compromising parts out and fold both letters into neat squares—one that will cross the seas and reach Jongseong, one that will live out its days in the darkness of your crowded drawer. You’ve run out of envelopes, so you go look for one in your parents’ office. Your mom calls out your name again, impatient to leave — if she sends her package off before twelve p.m., it will get to the receiver tomorrow, and she’s hell-bent on getting perfect five-star Vinted reviews — so you hurriedly put your letter in the envelope, close it, stamp it, and write Jongseong’s name and address on the back. The other letter you absent-mindedly throw in your drawer with the dozens of other letters in which you’d crossed the line.

A few weeks later, like an apparition, Jongseong stands before you again.

He’s tanner from months under the Washington sun, from afternoons spent at his family’s lake house, on their boat. His hair is slightly shorter and suits him even better; you don’t recognize any of the clothes he wears. He grumbles as his mother goes back-and-forth between hugging him, staring at him worriedly and reminding him to call at least twice a week while his father unpacks the trunk. “I’ll only be a thirty-minute train ride away, Mom,” he says.

He’s still Jong.

You moved in yesterday, and you’re now waiting for your new roommate, who, after five minutes of deliberating whether she should bring a jacket or not and finally decided against it, changed her mind the minute she stepped outside.

It’s been two months since you last saw him. Shortly after sending your letter, you’d gone to stay with Sunoo’s grandparents for a week, just a day before he was set to come back from Seattle. Amid packing and other preparations, you haven’t had time to see each other. Is it okay if I respond to your letter in person? I think I’ll be too busy these two coming weeks, he texted you. You replied that it wasn’t a problem, you told him which dorm you’d been assigned and found out his was the one next door.

When he notices you staring, he does a double-take. You wave at him, and even from this distance, you see the blush that creeps up his neck and takes over his face as he shyly waves back. You’ve never seen him like this—he’s always been either arrogant or friendly, never… flustered. He makes a motion as if to say, I’ll text you, and heads inside the building with his parents and all of his luggage.

Indeed, he texts you some hours later while you’re sharing a piece of strawberry and matcha cake with your roommate Liz, whom you find out is half-German—Jongseong and your dad would probably love her for that simple fact. Some of the first things she’d asked you were what your astrological signs were and whether you wanted her to pull tarot cards for you when she was all done setting up her side of the room. Between that and her dyed blonde hair, you’d felt comfortable telling her all about Jongseong, the well and your dream. Unlike your skeptical and sarcastic friends, she’d nodded along to your every word, a serious expression on her face. “A sign from the universe,” she’d called it, and she gasped in excitement when his name appeared on your screen.

He sends you a link to a freshers’ week event, some potted plant sale happening on the main campus square, and asks if you’re free to go with him tomorrow. I need something to liven up that depressing room, he writes.

So that’s how you find yourselves among green plants of all shapes and sizes, searching for one that’s both low-maintenance and appealing to the eye. You’re glad that you have something to actually do—if you were just sitting at a café and having a conversation, you’re not sure you’d be able to stand the awkwardness. You’d chalked up his behavior on the day of his move-in to nerves, or to surprise upon seeing you so unexpectedly. But apparently, it wasn’t a one-time thing. He keeps clearing his throat as if he were sick with some cold, won’t look into your eyes for more than split seconds at a time, and in complete opposition to his usual confident, deliberate speech, talks in a quick and disorderly manner. And he’s either really caught a cold, or his ears have just permanently turned red. You ask him if something’s wrong a couple times, but he violently shakes his head, says, “No, what could be wrong?” then looks at you as if you might tell him what’s wrong.

When you’re alone again, you wonder what on earth could have happened over the summer that could make him change his behavior with you so radically. Did something happen in Seattle? Maybe he met someone there and doesn’t know how to tell you. Maybe you went overboard with your letters, he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, he wants to let you down easy but doesn’t know how to tell you. Or maybe—maybe you got impossibly pretty during those two months, and absence does make the heart grow fonder, as they say, and every thought you have about him, he has about you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you.

In any case, he’s hiding something.

The theory that he might want to stop being friends soon falls flat—the invitations to other freshers’ events keep coming, be it free wine & pizza taster sessions from the Wine Society, karaoke nights with the Taylor Swift Society or a shark movie marathon with the Bad Film Society, and he never turns you down when you tell him there’s something you want to visit in this new city of yours, even when the thing you want to visit in question is a bakery you have to queue in front of at seven a.m. if you want to get a pain au chocolat. In your defense, they turn out to be the best ones you and Jongseong have ever tried—although, to be fair, neither of you has been to France.

Things progressively return to normal. He’s able to make eye contact for more than three seconds again, he listens carefully and laughs along when you tell him about your week by the sea with Sunoo, he fills you in on what Heeseung’s been up to. One thing remains different, however—when you throw quips at him, he usually would’ve delighted in coming up with a better, wittier response, but now, he’ll roll his eyes at best, look at you amusedly and stay silent at worst. “Won’t you even entertain me?” you ask him once, to which he replies that you’re doing a good job entertaining yourself as is.

Instead, he becomes more earnest. As per usual you badger him with questions like Aren’t I so pretty right now? or Isn’t my outfit so cute today? to get a reaction out of him, and if during your high school days he’d either fake a puking sound or look you up and down and grumble I guess, he now smiles and simply says Yes, you are, Yes, it is. It seems impossible to keep track of his attitude: one day, he’s one thing, the next, he’s another person entirely.

It annoys you. You take his changing demeanor to mean that now that he’s a college student, he won’t indulge in your childish squabbles anymore, as though he was above all of that now, when just three months ago he was stalking your parents’ Facebooks to find unfavorable photos of you from when you were thirteen and using them as reaction pictures in your friends’ group chat. You think of your graduation day, of the box he’d given you, all done up in wrapper paper and a bow—he had filled it with every eraser he’d stolen from you over the years, he’d even gone so far as to date every single one of them, from the second of October freshman year to the twenty-eighth of November of your senior year. You didn’t count them, but there had to be at least a hundred. At the time, you’d just thought it was funny—but what if the gesture had meant something deeper than you’d realized? What if he was marking the end of something with that box? No more playing around, we’re adults now. But classes have barely started, you don’t know your way to the off-campus library, you aren’t a different person to who you were just weeks or even months earlier. Why is he acting like he is? You look at him, and you see the boy whose fault it was you had to buy a new eraser every week—who knows how many books you could’ve bought with that money. But when he turns to look at you, too, and your eyes meet, you’re suddenly assailed with the memories of that night, the kind eyes, the soft smile.

Does his future capacity to love me already exist in his heart?

Your heartbeat speeds up and you have to look away.

From your letters, it seems to be much hotter back home than in Seattle—you talk of sunburns, of afternoons spent inside with the fan on maximum speed, of ice melting instantly and watering down your Coke Zeros, whereas Jay can walk around the city pleasantly and needs to bring a jacket if he’ll be out until late after sundown. And yet, as he reads your latest letter, his skin prickles feverishly, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. He’d excitedly torn the envelope open the second it arrived in the mail, heart thumping as he counted the pages, at least three more than usual — he was always happy that you wanted to talk to him at all, so the fact that you had this much to tell him sent him over the moon — but he would have never expected what was awaiting him inside.

With a smile on his face, he read your replies to the questions he’d asked you last time, your reactions to everything he told you about, the live Mariners game, the lake house, the rides on the boat. He imagined you as you sat at your desk in your room he’d only seen once, when you’d held a small party for your birthday and he, having arrived first, was honored with a tour of your house. He imagined your smile, the way you played with your hair when you focused on something, wondered whether you pondered every word before you wrote it down as he did or whether you poured your thoughts out onto the page without hesitation. His smile faltered when Jake Sim’s name appeared in your neat handwriting, but he was relieved to find out your description of him now was miles away from the one at the start of the school year.

Then you start writing about him. Him, Park Jongseong, and your words startle him so much, it’s like he’d forgotten he was the recipient of this letter in the first place.

But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you.

He’s been lying comfortably in his bed, but he sits up the moment his eyes take in these words. If there is one topic the two of you have practically never broached, it’s this exactly: your relationship, the changes it’s gone through this past year. Except for a few mentions made in jest here and there, you’ve always conveniently ignored the fact that not so long ago, you were at each other’s throats. At least, you were at his throat, and Jay let you be, let you think the hatred went both ways, when in reality all he wanted was to keep you close one way or another. To him, anything was better than indifference.

But here you are, writing about how you feel about him, not in hints, not in jokes, but actually telling him black and white what goes through your head when you think of him—in other words, everything he’s been dying to know ever since he met you and especially ever since you started warming up to him a few months ago.

I have never told you about that night because I know it’ll just be more fodder for you to endlessly tease me, and I haven’t even mentioned it in these letters that I write and don’t send. Sometimes I debate the ethics of it—if I know something about our futures, isn’t it right that you know, too? But then again, I still hesitate whether what happened was real or not. As with anything, the more time passes, the more I forget about it. What kind of cheese you’d put on the pasta, the movie that played in the background, whether the stairs were carpeted or wooded—these details have evaded me by now. All I clearly remember is your face and how I felt, seeing it then, seeing it the next day at school, ten years younger, the same exact person in what felt like a different universe. As much as I tried to deny it, I know now that it was no coincidence—I was talking about it with Sunoo and he said that sometimes, we want something so badly, we conjure it up for ourselves. He’s not always a dimwit. And he’s right, the kind of love I felt from you in that dream — or not-dream — I’ve yearned for it ever since I first watched Pride & Prejudice, the 2005 film to be precise, when I was ten. But with you? That was what I couldn’t believe at first. I don’t think I need to explain why—you were there, I think you knew how I felt about you for over three years, it’s not like I tried to hide it.

Then you turned up and the sight of you was enough to bring back all the feelings from that dream. You must’ve wondered why my behavior with you switched so suddenly—well, a glimpse into marital bliss is sometimes enough for a girl to make some changes in her life. Yet I valiantly tried to convince myself that any flutter of my heart around you was due to this stupid dream, to a version of you my brain had conjured up because it was starved for affection, and you happened to be at the forefront of my mind, even if not for the right reasons. But it was no use. I had entertained the possibility that this future was really mine, and I couldn’t go back to seeing you as the boy who annoyed the living daylights out of me.

But Jong, if you weren’t you, I would’ve been confused for a week and then I would’ve gotten over it. I stayed confused for a while, and everything you did only served to confuse me further. I started to notice you more, to see you for who you were and not for the idea I had constructed of you in my head, I stopped taking note of only the things that reinforced this idea. And that changed everything.

Let’s get it out of the way: as much as I hate to admit it because it proves you right, I saw that you are indeed devastatingly handsome. It devastates me every time I have to look at that stupid, wonderful face of yours. And if aging is something you’re worried about, don’t be. I’ve seen you at 28, and let’s just say that your jaw somehow only gets more chiseled. I’ve realized that you don’t just participate in class to be a prick — except for when you contradict me in Literature, I know you only do that to piss me off, and yes, it works — but that you actually care about what we learn and that you don’t want the teacher to feel like they’re talking to a classroom full of students made out of bricks. I’ve also realized that you didn’t specifically pick German to be the one subject where you must beat me at all costs, you just actually really like German, even if I’m still undetermined as to why. And I can finally admit to myself—you are funny. Sometimes. There were so many times I had to stop myself from laughing at one of your idiotic puns because I could not bear to give you the satisfaction. That feeling when the worst person you know makes a funny joke, and all that. And as much as I’ve mocked you for it, I do actually like your laugh. I like that you’re only loud when you laugh, or sneeze, or get excited over something. You don’t scream, you don’t get angry, and I think that’s a lot for a boy fresh out of puberty. Or for any boy, really.

But above all, you’re kind, Jong. I think it’s the best thing about you. I think it’s the best thing anyone can be. I see it in your patience with Heeseung when he starts one of his rants better reserved for Reddit than real life, I see it in the way you took Sunoo and Kazuha in stride, even though they’re a bit rough around the edges sometimes, I see it in the way you guide the freshmen at the start of every year, when all anyone does is complain about them, I see it in the gentleness with which you let down the girls who confess to you, even the more persistent ones. I used to think they were crazy, but I understand them more than ever now. I also used to think that all those kindnesses meant that the ones you occasionally showed me meant nothing more than that—occasional kindnesses. You were just a nice guy, occasionally so to me. But you sort of ratted yourself out when you gave me those twenty chocolates for Valentine’s.

Or, really, what made things clearer was that fight in December. I guess I was wrong—you do get angry. I remember a thought I had at the time: just when I think I know you, you do something to shake it all up. You punched two of the star soccer players of our school in the face because they said some mean, unimportant things about me. Thinking about it now, I still don’t understand it. Was it another one of your acts of kindness?

And then I thought of those other times you helped me out. Do you remember them—the art project, the handwritten notes after my grandma passed away, you tearing Park Sunghoon a new one in the girls’ bathroom. I’m sure there are many more that I’ve dismissed simply because I did not want to see you in any other light than the one I’d decided to shine on you.

Maybe I’m rewriting the past here, but I’ve been thinking about something lately. The theme today seems to be honesty, so I’ll lay myself bare and tell you something I haven’t told anyone yet, not even myself. The more I write, the more I become aware of its truth. I like you, Jong. I think I have for a long time, longer than either of us thinks. Maybe that’s why I kept buying erasers.

I don’t have the best memory — I suspect iron deficiency, it runs in my mom’s side of the family — but I do remember this. The first time I saw you. I haven’t noticed your face changing in real time, but I’m sure I’d laugh at how much of a baby you looked back then. Although I didn’t fare much better, I’m sure. Well, you’re the one that has all these embarrassing pictures of me, you freak, so I’m sure you could tell me. Moving on…

I found you really cute. You were chatting to the person next to you, maybe it was Heeseung, I didn’t look properly—I only looked at you. Don’t laugh at me. It was the first day of high school, there was a nervous energy in the air, but you seemed happy to be there. You know I don’t have hordes of friends like you do, I don’t walk through life with people naturally gravitating towards me. I’m okay with it now, but it was something I struggled with back then. Kazuha, Sunoo and I have had each other since our elementary days, and I never needed more than that—but fifteen is the prime age for comparison, and as the weeks passed and we got used to being high schoolers, I listened to everyone sing your praises, I watched as you talked with all of our classmates, even our teachers, like you were old friends. But we sat next to each other in a couple of classes, and you wouldn't talk to me outside of partnered work. I, who wanted to be easily charmed by you like everyone else was, who thought maybe you’d help me come out of my shell. But it felt like sitting next to me was torture to you, like the boy whom I watched speak with ease to everyone else disappeared when I was around. And so — and I’m not proud of this — every smart remark in class, every joke that had the entire class roaring, every high five you gave out in the hallway, I started to despise them. And by association, I started to despise you. After that, it was easy to find fault in everything you did, my contempt was only enhanced by everyone’s admiration. But I’m not alone here. It went both ways, didn’t it? I don’t think you liked that I didn’t like you and openly showed it, so used to being everyone’s favorite person you were. I remember how you showily tried to be nice to me after that, maybe you just wanted another friend, but I didn’t let you. I don’t blame us for how we acted, only for taking so long to get our heads out of our asses.

(I have to say, I also have a thing for hating people. Remind me to tell you about Na Jaemin and Shin Ryujin one of these days.)

Anyways, I think it’s because I had liked you so much at first that I could then seemingly hate you so much. But I never hated you, Jong, not really. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. Can I take it all back now?

Now that we’re entering university soon, I can’t help but look back on high school. This is what I want to know, but I’m not sure I’ll ever have the courage to ask you, because if your answer is the one I suspect, I don’t know how I’ll handle all the regret in my heart.

Have I been wrong about you this whole time? I thought you harbored the same negative feelings towards me as I had you since the moment you’d laid eyes on me, but all of a sudden, here you were, bloody, bandaged hand holding mine. Even with your busted eye, you looked like an angel next to all that white in the nurse’s station. I’ll never forget your words that day. Would you really not get hurt for anything else, Jong?

Your letter abruptly ends here, no concluding remarks, no wishing him a fun time in Seattle and looking forward to his next letter, no sign-off. It was as if someone cut you off before you could say everything you wanted, but then why send him this seemingly unfinished letter? It is all the more bizarre since your letters are usually meticulous: you write on every other line, it looks like you take your time with every single letter, the only disturbance in your otherwise perfect handwriting is your going back-and-forth between cursive and script s’s. But this particular letter looks rushed, your lines are sloppy, some words need to be read a few times over to be understood. What kind of state had you been in, writing these words? Jay’s heart swells, thinking that you were as moved writing as he was reading. He even looks through your letter again, wishing to find a tear stain somewhere, but there are none. Maybe he’s been watching too many of these romantic period dramas you always go on about.

He has to pace his room when he’s done reading your letter, but he feels trapped inside these four walls, so he dashes outside, saying that he’s getting some air when his relatives ask him where he’s off to in such a rush, and walks around the block five times. When he’s back in his room, he rereads your letter, eyes taking in each and every word slowly and carefully, making sure he doesn’t misread anything.

You like him. You, Y/N, like him, Jongseong, it’s a fact, it’s real, you said so yourself, you went into quite some detail about it, he can’t believe it, but it’s real, it’s written right there on the page, if anyone dares tell him he’s fooling himself, he can prove them wrong, you’re the one who said it.

The smile doesn’t leave his lips for the rest of the day, he can barely eat, he’s already full of happiness. He reads your words over and over before falling asleep, committing them to memory, dreaming about them, about you.

You. How should he respond to this? Are you even expecting a response? You seem to know he’s not impartial to you, either, although that’s an understatement.

In the following days, the thought that you hadn’t meant to send him this letter nags at him. The abrupt ending, the absence of your usual Love, Y/N. The fact that this had come out of left field—none of your previous letters had even a romantic undertone, no matter how he tried in his own to hint at his missing you, the most reference to seeing each other again you would give him was It’ll be better to show you this in real life. The act of sending letters itself didn’t feel very platonic, but you never went there, so he didn’t, either. He had secretly yearned to have you this close all these years, he would never forgive himself if he ended up chasing you away now with his over-eagerness.

You had landed on something very real in your letter: I don’t think you liked that I didn’t like you and openly showed it, so used to being everyone’s favorite person you were. I remember how you showily tried to be nice to me after that, maybe you just wanted another friend, but I didn’t let you. He cursed his fifteen-year-old self, that idiot who couldn’t even speak to a girl no matter how much he wanted to, just because she was so pretty, he was afraid of saying something stupid and messing it up before it even had a chance to start.

On days when you’d had particularly nasty or petty arguments — it could get pretty bad, at the start, before you both started maturing and realized how ridiculous you were, especially with your classmates telling you to keep it classy — he’d stay up all night, wondering why you hated him so much in the first place, what on Earth he could’ve done to warrant such vitriol. Now, finally, he knew, and he could only resent the fact that no one had invented time machines yet, so he could nip his useless ego in the bud; so he could tell younger Jay not to take it personally, that you had your reasons for disliking him, that even if you hadn’t, the world won’t end if someone doesn’t like him like everyone usually does.

Because, he hates to admit, that was what had done it for Jay. He couldn’t stand that someone — not just someone, but one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen, a girl he’d been hyping himself up to talk to every day, but never found the courage to — didn’t immediately fall for his charms. And not just that, but even showed just how much she disliked him. You looked him up-and-down with disdain, made disgusted faces at his jokes, rolled your eyes when he spoke up in class. It made him burn with anger, but he also weirdly enjoyed it—at least, you were paying attention to him. So, he amped it up. Talked louder, laughed louder, hovered around you. He even stole your erasers, wrote the date on which he’d taken them, kept them in a box on his desk that he looked at every time he studied at home. He aimed to beat you in every class you shared, even though neither of you cared that much about grades—the annoyed look on your face when he boasted about the two points he’d gotten over you was enough satisfaction.

All in all, he behaved like a child, and you reciprocated in like.

Until you didn’t.

It was a random Tuesday when something in your attitude towards him shifted. It wasn’t a complete 180, but he noticed everything about you, so even a slight change of your tone was obvious to him. You started using your nickname for him more often than his full name—he never told you, but of course he loved that you didn’t call him Jay like everyone else, that you had your own way of addressing him. It was a sign to him that the two of you had something special, even if it was on the opposite end of the spectrum of what he wanted with you.

He again spent sleepless nights wondering what had caused this change: was it something he had done, or something within you? It was a welcome change, that much was sure, but he was initially too confused to take it in stride. He’d long made peace with the fact that he’d never have you the way he really wanted, so he was fine with whatever this was—but now, you were changing, your interactions were tinged with something like shyness, the distance between you felt greater than ever. He tried to keep up his smart-ass appearances around you, but you only indulged in your old habits once in a while, as though you had grown tired of arguing with him, even of giving him the time of day.

So he resolved himself to adapting his behavior to yours. If you stared at him intently like his face was a puzzle you were trying to solve, he let you, rested his head on his palm and smiled as he stared back at you. Finally, he had an excuse to look at you without you threatening to punch him or saying a picture would last longer. He knew they did, he’d had to resort to scrolling through Sunoo’s and Kazuha’s Instagrams to find any photos of you. Yours was private and at the time, you would’ve probably cursed him out if he’d sent a follow request. If you seemed too annoyed or upset over something, he’d leave you alone, he’d do something nice to let you know you didn’t need to have your guards up at all times around him. If you seemed to silently call for a truce of hostilities, he easily complied.

Then, after a few weeks, your petty arguments resumed, but those too were different—if before they felt filled with real disdain and irritation, they now seemed to be a comfortable habit to fall back on, almost like a fun hobby. Those, too, Jay readily welcomed.

And so things changed in a direction Jay had never thought would one day be possible. You gave him no explanations, nor did he ask for any, and soon he stopped losing sleep over the why’s and the how’s and simply let himself enjoy the fact that you now had the semblance of a friendship, that he could compliment you and pass it off as amical teasing, that he could learn things about you like what you spent your weekends doing, what your relationship with your family was like, whether you were a dog or cat person, whether you wanted to visit his farm in Stardew Valley.

Unsurprisingly, this only enhanced his already pathetically strong feelings for you. He worried over how to make sure this wasn’t some sort of 30-day friendship trial you had wanted to test out. He reveled in the fact that his top university of choice was the one you had already been accepted to. He now knew what it felt like to have you smile at him, smile because of him, and he never wanted again to live in a world where this was not a daily occurrence.

He now sort of has an answer—your letter doesn’t make it very clear, it makes him think again that you really had not meant to send it, but you seem to have had a dream. A dream of him, 28-year-old him, to be precise, of your life together—he’s not sure. At this point in time, he doesn’t care much, either. Whether it was a dream or a real vision of the future that you had, all that matters is that it allowed you to see him in a new light, a light which he had hoped for years would one day appear to you, and it had changed things. And now, you liked him.

You said so yourself.

He’s at a loss for words. He can’t concentrate for long enough to put all his thoughts in order, he can’t make himself calm down and write his feelings down. He has to pack to go home, once he’s home, he’ll have to pack for university. But it’s only two weeks from now to the day you meet again, and it’ll be better to say what he wants to say in person, anyway.

Is it okay if I respond to your letter in person? I think I’ll be too busy these two coming weeks, he texts you.

And then those two weeks pass like two seconds and you’re there, a few meters away from him. All the speeches he’d prepared in his head, from grand declarations of love to laid-back admittances of Yeah, I like you too, you’re cool, I guess, they all vanish from his head. For fourteen days he’s been going through scenarios upon scenarios of your reunion, what you’d look like, what he’d say, how you’d react. But now that he can actually see you, now that he would just have to walk a few steps if he wanted to touch you, hug you, kiss you — hoping that was something you wanted to do — he freezes. He forgets how his body works, the part in his brain that’s meant to manage language ability fails him. HIs mom calls him over, urging him into his new dorm building, and all he can do is wave back at you like an idiot.

When finally he musters the courage to text you, what he hopes will be the day that starts your romantic relationship turns into the day Park Jongseong realizes how much of a loser he is. For the first hour, he can’t look at you, he can’t get through a sentence without stuttering out half of his words, he runs out of things to say in record time. All he can think of is how easy it’d be to grab one of your hands, hold it in his and walk around this stupid potted plant sale as if the two of you were two halves of a whole. He doesn’t even want a potted plant, his roommate already has five, he just wanted an excuse to see you. He steals glances at you when you’re looking elsewhere, and he notices everything about you tenfold now that he can, now that caring about you doesn’t need to be in vain any longer. He tells himself that he just needs to calm down a bit, even when you have the confirmation that the person you’re about to confess to already likes you, revealing your feelings to someone is always nerve-wracking, the two of you haven’t seen in each other in a while, he’ll talk to you once his heart gets out of his throat.

But you’re acting normal. Suspiciously so. You’re acting like you never told him you liked him, like nothing has changed between you. He rereads your letter the second he gets back to his dorm. He’s not crazy, it’s written right there, I like you, Jong. I think I have for a long time, longer than either of us thinks. He knows the words by heart now, but he checks them anyway. So why are you acting like you never said anything? Had you really not meant to send that letter? Did Jay actually intrude on your private thoughts by reading words that had never meant to be seen by another soul?

You continue to behave as you usually would around him, but if he couldn’t go back to vicious bickering when things changed the first time, he can’t go back to friendly bickering now that things — for him — have changed a second time. He doesn’t even want friendly to be in your shared vocabulary anymore.

So he stops giving in. If you make fun of him, he just stands there with an unimpressed if amused look on his face. If you pedantically correct him on something, he just nods his head and accepts it. He can tell you’re bothered by it, but he needs to show you that he doesn’t want to go on being just friends with you—he wants to compliment you without having to pass it off as teasing, he wants to stare at you with hearts in his eyes without having to look away when you catch him, he wants to spend every waking second of every day with you, he wants to hold your hand, hold you.

He could wait for things to change slowly again, but why wait when he could help things along?

It’s nine p.m. on a Saturday and you’re sneaking Jongseong into your dorm. Liz is away for the weekend, gone back home to celebrate her aunt’s birthday, so you have the room to yourselves. It took some convincing to get him to come — What if we get caught coming in, What if your T.A. sees us, What if I get reported to campus police — and so when your verbal reassurances failed to work, you resorted to blinking up at him through your lashes and that did the trick.

Jongseong was in many ways unlike any other man you’d ever met; in some other ways, he was the exact same.

Plastic bag of the tteokbokki you’d asked for in hand, he looks around the deserted hallways like someone might jump out of nowhere and beat him to a pulp at any given moment. At this time of the week, everyone’s out partying or holed up in their dorms, presumably either to rest or because of a lack of friends so early on in the semester. You grab his free hand and hurry him along to the elevator—once inside, it takes you a few seconds before you realize you’re still holding it, and you retract your hand quickly while he just smiles.

You settle yourselves on the floor—comfort is not worth getting gochujang sauce on your white sheets. You sit criss-cross in front of each other, the food between the two of you, and catch up on your first week of class in-between bites of spicy, gooey rice cakes and fish cakes. You wonder, if one day you and Jongseong are no longer friends, how long you will keep associating tteokbokki with him.

When you tell him that you and Jake share a class, Introduction to Film Studies, he gives you a look. “What’s that face for?” you ask.

“Did you guys sit next to each other?”

You chuckle. “Of course. We only knew each other in that room, it would’ve been weird not to.”

He continues to stare at you. After a while, he muses, “You’re not…?”

You halt in your tracks, rice cake at the end of your plastic fork hanging in the air, halfway between the container and your mouth. “Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.” Still in love with him, interested in him again, you don’t know the exact details of Jongseong’s thought process, all you know is he has nothing to worry about—if it’s something he worries about.

When a smile slowly grows on his lips and he nods, saying, “Okay, good,” you let yourself think it might be.

Later, you’re ten minutes into a senseless blockbuster movie when he suddenly pauses it. It snaps you out of a trance—his hand was awfully close to yours, so is his shoulder, his thigh, his knee, everything, really, and you haven’t been able to concentrate on anything but the warmth radiating off his skin and the intensity with which you crave to feel it intentionally rather than accidentally. When he speaks, there’s something serious in his tone that makes you nervous. “Y/N,” he says as he turns to you, and now his face is awfully close, too. There’s still many centimeters separating you, but in this tiny, barely lit-up room, he feels closer than ever before. “Do you remember when I said I’d reply to your letter in real life?”

You tilt your head. “Yeah, that was ages ago.”

“Well, I thought I’d do it now.”

“Now?”

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Now.”

And then those safe centimeters suddenly disappear, and Jongseong’s lips are on yours. It’s a brief, chaste kiss, so quick you wonder if it even happened when he leans back again.

“I like you, too,” he says, and your heart stops.

“W-what?” is all you can say back, eyes wide like he’s just admitted to killing someone rather than reciprocating your feelings.

His confident facade quickly crumbles. “God, this was so much cooler in my head, I-I’m sorry.” He pulls something out of his sweatpants pocket, pages folded over and over into a tiny square. As he unfolds them, you recognize your paper, your handwriting—but what do your letters have anything to do with him kissing you, of all things? “I don’t think you meant to send this. But I’m glad you did.”

He hands you the pages and your eyes skim over the words, not detecting anything out of the ordinary, until—But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you. You remember this line, because you had made sure to strike it and everything that came afterward out when you rewrote the letter that you would actually send Jongseong. So how was he giving you this?

“I-How do you have this?” you ask, voice trembling. You feel as though your heart overflows with all kinds of emotions, and so your eyes follow, tears staining your lower lashes.

But Jongseong is not one to let you hide things from him. “Hey, no, it’s okay,” he says, warm hands coming to cup your face. “Look at me.” You have no choice but to oblige—his gaze is somehow both soft and stern, a mix of concern and determination. “Did you mean what you wrote in here?” You nod. “Then everything’s okay. You don’t know how happy I was reading this.”

The tension in your body slowly starts to fade. “Really?”

“Really. I cherish every single word in there.”

“Really?” you repeat, and he chuckles.

“Really.”

Your heartbeat speeds up as you gaze into his eyes, as you let yourself bask in the affection and endearment you find there. You can’t quite comprehend what’s happening. The letter, the kiss, his confession, your inadvertent confession, it’s all a mess in your head; so sudden, but such a long time coming at the same time. You never imagined that things would change so quickly—less than a year ago, you thought Jongseong was the most irritating person on this planet. After meeting his 28-year-old self, you thought it’d take ages for the two of you to be on such good terms. But now, just a week into your first semester of university, belly full of tteokbokki and Sprite, you like each other enough not only to be in the same room without hurling insults at each other but to actually be smiling at each other, willingly at that.

Your eyes drift down to his lips, just like in the hallway all those months ago, and the words slip out before you can stop them. They’re a mere whisper—”Kiss me again.”

Jongseong doesn’t need to be told twice. Still cupping your face, he bridges the gap between the two of you again, and this time, when your lips meet, they don’t come apart so quickly. It’s your first kiss, and it’s nothing short of magical, better than any romance novel could’ve prepared you for. His lips are warm and soft against yours, moving slowly, gingerly; as if he’s scared to take any wrong step, he lets you control the pace, follows every tilt of your head this way and that. It’s a relief that he seems to know as little about this as you do—his hands haven’t moved from your face, yours are on his knees, all you can do is focus on the movement of your lips, to think of anything else at the same time would be overwhelming.

“I’ve liked you from the start,” he suddenly says, face still so close you can feel his breath on your lips as he speaks.

“Hm?” you hum, body reeling from the kiss.

“I’ve liked you from the start,” he repeats, grinning—he looks relieved, like he’s been waiting to say these words for a long time. “I can’t believe this is happening after all these years. Or at all, really.”

“I think I did, too.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that in your letter.”

Your eyes widen and you bury your face in your hands as Jongseong laughs. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” you mumble.

He smooths over your hair with one hand, brings your face back up with the other. “Don’t worry. I won’t ever make you regret this.”

Your brain and heart are too all over the place for you to come up with a coherent answer, so you lean in and reconnect your lips to his. It’s already becoming your favorite sensation, feeling him smile into the kiss, threading your fingers in his soft hair.

Time passes delicately like this, the two of you on your single bed, in the sheets that you bought three weeks ago. A lot of it is spent kissing and learning how to fall into each other’s rhythm, but you also spend hours talking, comparing situations and how you’d experienced them. You thought his occasional acts of kindness were done out of guilt, evidence that he did have some morals; he was trying to show he cared about you. He thought you’d despised him from the moment you saw him; you reiterate in more detail than your letter what really happened, you say you wish you knew then what you know now.

“But I never hated you, Jong. I think I wanted to believe that I did, but I never actually did.”

“You glared at me everytime I walked past like I killed a member of your family.”

You groan, ashamed of yourself. “I did, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he says, chuckling, placing a kiss on your forehead. His arms are around you, your head rests atop his heart—you’ve never felt more comfortable in your life. “But it’s okay. We’re here now, and I don’t want us to have any regrets about high school. We had a good time, didn’t we?”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “I’m sure you did, stealing all my erasers.”

He lets out a hearty laugh. Clearly, he’s very proud of his feat. “Hey, I gave all of them back.”

“And what am I going to do with a hundred erasers, Jong?” you ask, laughing too, pecking his cheek aggressively—your way of punishing him for a grave deed.

“Keep them as a token of my love for you,” he says, and your breath falters at the mention of that word. “In fifty years, it’ll be a sign that I’ve liked you since the beginning, I just had a funny way of showing it.”

“Fifty years, huh?”

He grins. “Fifty, a hundred, whatever. You’re not getting rid of me.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

You’re both smiling so wide, you can barely manage a kiss. He trails kisses from your lips to your ear. Holding you close, he whispers, “It’s always been you, Y/N. Always and only you.”

There may be thorns on the otherwise immaculate rose that is your life, but Park Jongseong was never one of them—all along, he was a bud waiting to bloom.

The more time passes, the more you wonder whether that night you had seen in your vision will ever come. There’s been evenings similar to it—crashing the minute you came home from a long day on set, telling yourself you’d take a fifteen-minute power nap only to wake up three hours later and coming downstairs to find your husband cooking dinner, cleaning the kitchen, taking care of your son or simply watching TV, but waiting for you, always waiting for you. He seems as happy now watching you come down the stairs as he was then finding your face among all the students flocking out of lecture halls.

The details are blurry now, but many small things seem to be different from what you’d seen. He still tries to recreate your favorite meal, but it’s not pasta all'arrabbiata, it’s laksa, because your first date as an official couple was to a Malaysian restaurant, not an Italian one. He’s still the best father you know, but you have one son, not twin girls—although that offer to “give him a younger sibling to play with” is always on the table. Even the house you live in is different from the one in your dream, which has now become nothing more than a funny anecdote you share with people when they ask you the story of how you and Jongseong met.

You think of Sunoo’s words from all those years ago: Sometimes, we want something so badly, we conjure it up for ourselves. Had 18-year-old you been in such denial over her feelings for Jongseong that she’d had to convince herself a magical well had bestowed a crazy dream upon her to admit that, yes, there was something there, something other than childish hatred?

It doesn’t matter anymore. Months pass without you thinking about that well, anyway.

Tonight, you come home late from work after having had to do last-minute changes to the script for your current project, a movie that starts shooting in a few days. Jongseong texted you that he was going to bed an hour or so again, so you’re greeted by a plate of japchae covered in film paper. The post-it note stuck to it reads, I’m afraid of the repercussions of too much curry consumption on our son, so no laksa tonight my love. Hope you like it. Come to bed quick. You were starving a second ago, but you decide food can wait—other things can’t.

You tiptoe up the stairs and into your son’s room, breathing in the scent of his hair and placing a kiss there. His hair is still worryingly sparse, but if he’s anything like his dad, it’ll come in a bit later than the other kids. You always thought babies with a full head of hair were freaky, anyway. He doesn’t budge a bit, sleeping like a log—his dad is another story, shuffling in bed the moment you step into your shared bedroom. He opens his arms wide, a silent invitation.

“You’re home,” he says as you attach yourself to his body, your leg hiked up over his, your face buried in the crook of his neck, your thumb caressing the start of stubble on his cheeks.

You smile. “I am.”

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